Renegades
by Renegades Inc
Summary: A year after retreating to Terra, the Emperor emerges from below the Imperial Palace renewed. A new epoch of the Great Crusade has begun - a direction not all will support. Written by gothik in 2011. Takes place late 001.M31.
1. Chapter One

Venus IX was a world that was considered the beauty of the sector.

It had been brought into compliance with no bloodshed: the people of this world had accepted that the Emperor of Mankind was the rightful and just ruler of the heavens and the worlds within his aegis, and saw no need to fire a single shot in anger.

When the mighty Imperial Fists had claimed this world in the name of the Emperor the populace had celebrated and feasted for days on end. The sons of Dorn had, for once, managed to bring a world to illumination with no loss of life; a shame it was not always like that.

For over thirty years Venus IX, known for its blue skies, white clouds and verdant forests, the clean crisp seas free from poisons and toxic waste, home to creatures that were descended from those long extinct on Holy Terra, had been a world loyal to the Imperium and a recruiting ground for the Imperial Fists themselves. She had raised seven Imperial Army units, all of whom fought alongside the Fists as their own detachment, bringing much honour and rewards to the people back home.

The governor, a former commander of the Mercia III light infantry, straightened his uniform, allowing the medals given to him in service to the Emperor and the Imperium to straighten.

He brushed them with his fingertips ensuring that there was not one speck of dust on them. His uniform was pressed to the highest standards, with creases down his trousers so sharp you could get a cut from them. His boots shone to the highest shine, to the extent that he fancied he could see his reflection in them.

He stood straighter as his attendant clasped his cloak into place. Everything had to be right today; today was the first time in a decade that the sons of Dorn had returned here, and not only that, Rogal Dorn himself was coming.

One did not appear before the Primarch of the Imperial Fists, the Emperor's Champion, looking like a recruit just awakened for early muster. He shooed away his attendant, a small fussy individual who had tutted over aspects of the governor's attire even when the governor himself was pleased with how he looked.

"Enough Jerome," he harshly spoke, "any more preening and I will look like a prize peacock. I am respectable."

"I just do not want you to be missing anything sir," Jerome replied with a nervous edge to his voice.

Governor Jarus Kelnick did not blame him one bit for his nervousness: the Phalanx, the mighty Imperial Fists vessel, had entered their space an hour ago, and if he said he did not feel nervous he would be a liar.

Who would not be nervous when they were about to come face to face with a demi-god?

* * *

><p>He sat upon his throne. Closing his eyes and listening to the heart of his mighty starship, bigger than any other that had ever been seen, this floating monastery-city that housed his sons in all their number.<p>

From serfs to crew and his own gene-enhanced sons, the Imperial Fists, this was their home. The Phalanx. A vessel so mighty that even from the ground it could easily be seen with the naked eye; and that was enough to cause any heart to stop in fear. For when the home of the Imperial Fists, the sons of the Emperors own Praetorian, came calling it was time to re-think and surrender.

He let his mind wander back, back to the Imperial Palace's inner sanctum in the place that the Emperor called his private peace. He had been locked underground working on a project that had taken him away from the crusade, away from the Imperium and away from his sons.

What had surprised him more was that upon his return there were only seven of his brothers present, and he had been puzzled by the non-inclusion of the others. Still, his father had welcomed them all with great hugs of affection.

He himself had been concerned, and when he saw the master of the Night Lords standing side-by-side with the father of the Dark Angels and the Phoenix of the Emperor's Children, a slight sense of dread had begun to sit in the pit of his stomach.

"Rogal," his father's voice, deeper than any of theirs and yet currently soft and filled with genuine affection, could be heard clear across the room, "Konrad," the Emperor turned to the pale master of Nostramo clad all in black, "it is time for you both to forget your differences."

The lord of the Imperial Fists and the father of night glared at each other, but it was only Dorn who felt the slight tremble in his hands as he faced the one brother who had almost killed him a few months ago.

"Come on now boys;" the Emperor placed his huge hands on their shoulders, Dorn holding his head high at his father's affection, Curze flinching visibly, unused to such a show of affection from his father, "kiss and make up, as they said in Galfstrian times."

Dorn could see Curze's eyes flicker a little and then, with a slight hesitation, he held his hand out. Knowing how much it must have took for his silent brother to do even that gesture, Dorn held his hand in the warrior grip.

The Emperor seemed pleased by the act and bid them to sit down. He gazed amongst them all and nodded to himself, almost as if he was pleased by what he had seen.

"Father," Dorn was surprised to find that it was his voice that now broke the expectant silence, "where are Horus and the others?"

The Emperor's eyes darkened. "They will not be coming," he rumbled, and for the first time since he had been reunited with his father, Dorn finally understood where Konrad Curze got his dark and intimidating voice.

* * *

><p>The lord of the Phalanx now watched the world below his scrutinising gaze. He was not here to parley with the governor; at this moment the Primarch was waiting to see if what he had been sent for was really here.<p>

He had his vox officer send word to the surface that he would be delayed, then, rising from his throne, retired into his strategium and stood, staring out his window. His eyes seemed to bore into the star field before him, but his mind was back on Terra.

* * *

><p>The Emperor moved back to his throne and sat himself down beckoning his sons towards him. Now Dorn saw who else was in this strange and bewildering meeting.<p>

There was the hulking form of the War Hound himself, the Red Angel, the father of the World Eaters, with his red hair tied into braids and his implants that heightened his already fearsome rage to killing heights. He always reminded Dorn of some ancient gladiatorial warrior from the Romani of old Terra legends.

He reminded himself that Angron had, of course, been a gladiator for a time, but for some reason he pictured him not on Nuceria, but in the old coliseums of Rome, fighting his emperor's enemies in the most bloodthirsty way he could. Then again, Angron was indeed a bloodthirsty killer held back by the sheer dint of being a Primarch - and yet, he could sense that none of that mattered, for when Angron was unleashed worlds trembled.

Beside him stood the lord of the Iron Hands, the Gorgon, the master craftsman with hands of flowering mercury. If each of his brothers was considered handsome on some level, Ferrus Manus was the opposite, though no less respected for it. As the embodiment of his adopted world Medusa, there was no one more attuned to the ways of that volcanic world then the master smith himself.

Fulgrim, the one of them all that apparently looked most like their father in his younger days, who - even with his snowy hair - was easily handsome enough to turn many heads. His pride showed in his Legion; a cruel accident had robbed him of the majority of his Legion before he even met them, and so, for a number of years, he had fought in Horus' shadow, until such a time that they were large enough in number to operate autonomously.

He was a prideful man, and that reflected in his legion; and he never tired of reminding people, when he deemed it necessary, that they and they alone bore the Aquila upon their breastplates. Sometimes Rogal despaired of his prideful brother, but like the others he was a fighter and a warrior-lord without peer.

His gaze fell upon Curze, the one brother who he was not altogether comfortable around and whose hand he had nearly died by. Konrad was murderous, there was no doubt about that. Still, their father had always waved away the excesses of the Night Lords, saying that they were like the World Eaters and the Rout: when a world would not comply or had fallen out of the growing Imperium's light, he would send the Night Lords in to bring the Emperors Justice to them all.

He moved his gaze, although not before those black eyes of the Night Haunter's locked gazes with him for a split second and a thin cruel smile crossed those bloodless lips, Dorn held the gaze for a moment and for added effect Curze flexed his talons. Dorn rolled his eyes and continued with his assessment. Despite appearances, there were some things that would never change.

Beside him there stood Lion El'Jonson, the lord of Caliban and in some ways the closest thing to a best friend that Curze had (to be honest, the only ones that Dorn knew he got along with were Mortarion, Fulgrim and the Lion). As ever the Lion remained poker-faced, his eyes nether flickering or giving away anything that might have given the lord of the Fists a clue as to what this strange gathering was all about.

Finally, beside the Emperor in his resplendent armour, his gold leaf painted face and charcoaled eyes gazing at their father in rapt and unhidden adoration, there was Lorgar, the prophet of Colchis, the Word being just two of his affectations; and right now he was looking at their father like he was a god.

"My sons." The Emperor spread his mighty arms wide. "Come follow me, and you will share what I have learnt and what I have done to enable man to rule the stars."

* * *

><p>"The scouts report that all has been found, my lord," Sigismund spoke close to his father's ear. "They encountered little resistance, but the governor is now hailing us wanting answers; what I shall say to him?"<p>

Rogal Dorn stared at the world below them and clasped his hands behind his back. "Teach them what it is like to hide important relics that belong to the lord of mankind away" he simply said. "Illuminate them."

Several hours later, as the Phalanx moved away, the last dying screams of Venus IX faded under the falling ash of a virus bomb, forevermore becoming a mere point of memory - the turning point for the Crusade.


	2. Chapter Two

The only sound that could be heard was the song of death. Mighty titans strode the battlefield, pumping out their visceral fury in the name of the Emperor and the Great Crusade. The warriors of the Deliverance Imperial Army fought alongside the mighty warriors of The Deliverer himself.

They could be seen in the air, like giant missiles, their black and white armour all but a blur as they enacted their father's orders. This world was not going to come to compliance willingly, and as the titans hammered their deathly payload at the citadel walls, the Raven Guard followed their father to victory.

The Imperial Army moved up under the shadow of the Deus Morti, a mighty Emperor Warmonger Titan, which stood like a mighty god. Its plasma reactor heart sang in battle, the ammunition that flew from its massive weapons cutting the air like a hundred thousand rounds of death; and everywhere it hit, it killed.

Corax himself was like a black whirl of obsidian, the flashes of his lightning claws cutting heads from shoulders, limbs from sockets. He was unstoppable. His pale features, like a spectre of death, was all that could be made out as the lord of Deliverance delivered the Imperium's wrath to those who dared stand against it.

He soared into the air like a giant bird of prey, his first company behind him, and hovered over the domed window, directing his first company to their targets. Then, folding his arms across his chest like some ancient Pharaoh, Corax turned himself upside down and accelerated towards the windows of the dome.

As he came down, the glass around him shattered outwards and downwards. The glass was made to shelter from the world's harsh elements and to some degree attacks, but it was not strong enough to withstand the weight of a space marine, and it was most certainly not made to withstand the charging attack of a Primarch. At the last moment he righted himself and cooled his jets, his sons coming to land in rows behind him, their bolters up and ready, trained on the people in the senate house. Corax rose last from the crouch that he had landed in and raised his head.

The superstitious humans backed away from the dark haired pale god that rose before them; his dark eyes - almost inhumanly dark - seemed to bore through them and into their souls.

Although he looked like some pale rider of death, his voice was anything but pale. It was a deep, resonating voice that seemed to carry over the entirety of the room, even though he spoke quietly. "The time of your deliverance is at hand," he said. "You cannot win this war, and we will take more of you until you accept that we are only here to bring you back into humanity's welcoming embrace, as brothers and sisters, not as enemies."

The rest of the senate, men and women, all stepped back, terrified of the giants that walked amongst them and petrified in fear of the giant that seemed to rule over these men in black and white.

"Swear your oath to the Imperium and I shall end this needless death and destruction." He held his arms out, almost as if he were imploring the people to do more than listen to him, to see him not as a destroyer of their culture and their way of life, but more as a man who was going to help them usher in a new dawn.

The ruling members of this world, named Halestron, listened; and as they listened they heard the sound of the Titan, the great monster that had caused so much death and destruction amongst their armed forces, step closer, each step causing the ground to shake beneath its tread.

Stone fell from the buildings around them and their senate house itself shook, as if the very gods that they had believed in all their lives were shaking the very foundations that this great building had been erected upon.

"What will happen to us?" one younger man asked, swallowing his fear and approaching the Primarch directly.

Bolters trained on him for daring to speak to their master without being spoken to first but Corax shook his head and the bolters were lowered.

"You will be re-educated into the arms of the Imperium and become a productive world alongside those of your kinsmen out in the stars. You will become part of a greater endeavour, your sons and daughters will join our armies to march in glory across the heavens, and they will look back and say that this was a good day."

"We were part of a dictatorship once before and you would ask us to give our freedom from one over to another?" The man shook his head. "A man that claims to be the rightful ruler of mankind - what gives him that right?"

Corax studied the man that stood no taller than his waist, his red hair seeming aflame in certain shades of light and his grey eyes boring into the face of the Primarch, showing no fear - Corax had to admire him for that at least.

There were very few humans who could hold the gaze of a Primarch without losing their sensibilities.

"Did he create the heavens? Did he create this world?" the man continued, "he had nothing to do with our world, and yet after centuries of being cut off from this world that our ancestors left, he suddenly steps forth from the night and proclaims himself the rightful ruler of mankind"

Corax cocked his head to one side like a crow sizing up its next meal. "He is the lord of Terra and there is no other like him, there can never be another like him. He is ageless, indeed immortal, and that, my friend, gives him the right"

"Why couldn't he have come himself?" the man finally asked. "Why could he have not come himself and spoken to our liege lord who now lies dead under your army's guns and told us himself about this glorious Imperium of his?"

In truth Corax did not know what to say to the man, this brave man that stood up to him and asked him questions that not many others here would have dared. He liked him and he wished he could simply tell him the truth, but Corax did not know the answer to give that would not be wrong to the man's ears.

Instead he replied as a son, and not a warlord that had come to drag their world into a new empire.

"He has many duties to perform to ensure that all worlds take their place under universal rule; and so I and my brothers, his sons and our sons take the word out to the people ourselves. There are no more gods; humanity does not need the shackles of religion, and it is what has kept them chained in ignorance. I understand why you fought us and fight us you did; your brave warriors all proved that they are loyal to their world. And yet, let us bring you the Imperial Truth, and let us learn from you as you will learn from us."

"And if we do not you will kill us all where we stand?"

"I will do as my father orders to bring this world into the Imperium of Man," Corax replied, "but I do not want this bloodshed to continue. What is your name?"

That wrong footed the man a little and he almost did not reply, yet recovered quickly and held his head high, although looking up into the pale features of the lord of Deliverance almost gave him vertigo.

"My name is Drago."

"And how old are you Drago?"

"I am 19 winters old."

Corax removed one of his lightning talons and rested a hand on Drago's shoulders "Would you like to stride the stars as a warrior of the Emperor, as a warrior without fear and a warrior bringing honour to his world?"

Drago arched an eyebrow "I thought I had already brought honour to my world."

Corax swept his arm round him "Would you like to become one of my Raven Guard, one of my sons, and stride into the unknown fighting the xenos that have plagued your world and others like it?"

Drago turned his gaze to the stoic warriors that surrounded the Primarch and swallowed heavily.

"Your world is not so far from my world of Deliverance," Corax gently spoke. "I believe that many of your world's sons would make fine additions to my sons and our universe-striding armies."

Drago turned to his people and watched as, one by one, they lay down their arms and slowly moved to one knee. The fight had left them; with the monster at their door they had no wish to see any more of their people die, and maybe it would not be too bad, becoming part of this Imperium of Man.

Drago clenched his fists for a moment and slowly he moved to one knee and bowed his head. "Our world is yours…. my lord."

Corax nodded and turned to his First Captain. "Solaro, call it off, have the remembrancers and the iterators come down and begin compliance."

"Yes, my lord."

"And choose twenty of their young to return to Deliverance to begin the process of becoming Astartes…including this young man."

"He may still resent you for taking his world Lord; is that wise?" Solaro cautiously asked.

"It'll make him strong; there is a fire in him that I like, reminds me of when I was that age."

Solaro laughed but behind his vox grill it came out more like the snort of a bullock. "Were you ever that young my lord?"

Corax allowed himself a wry smile and shrugged. "Maybe not, but still I like him."

Solaro nodded and stepped towards the still kneeling Drago and took him gently by the arm. "Say goodbye to your mother and father Drago…"

"They are dead already," he muttered.

Solaro was silent for a moment, then continued. "Then come with me, and soon you will be part of a new brotherhood, one that will teach you how to be a true warrior of mankind."


	3. Chapter Three

The Emperor stood in the centre of the monastery fortress that was home to the Word Bearers, watching sternly as Lorgar and his First Chaplain reverently placed the gifts brought here by his other sons. They set them on the plinths that the Emperor had selected. Then, the Emperor ordered the Astartes out: only he and his sons would witness this.

It was quiet at first and then, in low murmurings, Lorgar began to recite from a book that his father had given him. As Rogal watched he met Konrad's gaze and, for the first time in those dark dead eyes, he saw a spark of life, a spark of acceptance.

Ferrus stood with his head held high like some ancient knight waiting for his benediction. Fulgrim stood tall and proud, pride being what he knew best, and it radiated off him. Angron trembled from head to toe, like a berserker straining at the leash to be set free from his confines and to bring death and mayhem to the universe.

The Lion's eyes blazed with glories untold and the future as he saw it. He returned his gaze to his father who now stood with his arms outstretched and, whether he wanted to or not, he could not help but follow his brothers in the chant that came from Lorgar's lips.

Just behind the Emperor stood Constantin Valdor, his features stoic and his loyalty, as ever, directed to the man in the centre of the room, no matter where he was or what path he would take.

Suddenly Lorgar's voice rose in intensity and, behind him, a cacophony of voices echoed like a demonic choir. Wherever their father had been and whatever he had seen, he had made his choice and the powers in the warp had answered him.

Great forms materialised behind him. To his right there was a towering, hulking warrior who was surrounded by blood like a shroud, the coppery tang of it following him wherever he moved. Pure anger, contained in one cauldron of blood and hate.

Another was like a bloated giant that held the tang of disease and pestilence around him although, for the moment, it seemed to be kept in check - by what, none of them knew. Death followed as surely in his steps as it did in those of simmering other beside him.

To the Emperors left stood a huge form that seemed to swirl with countless hues, a riot of colour that was humanoid one moment, a great feathered serpent the next; they could not even be sure which was real and which was false, before these hands of dark fate and shining destiny woven into one powerful form.

At the end stood a man who was also feminine, with half the body of a man and the other half of a woman, and oh how beautiful he looked; pleasure and pain and all things in between emanated off him/her in equal measure.

In the middle, their father turned his face to the heavens and his eyes lit up with the arcane power that had birthed him so many scarlet, forgotten centuries ago; and as Lorgar's enthralled and rapturous voice came to the end of his Gregorian chant, their father lowered his head and encompassed his chosen sons in his gaze.

"I am a god," he bellowed, "as are you all!"

Lorgar moved to one knee, followed by Fulgrim, then Angron. Valdor followed Angron, then the Lion, Ferrus next; and slowly, as one, Dorn and Curze did the same. Their loyalty was once more forever bound to their father and his destiny.

"What of our other brothers, father?" Fulgrim asked, waiting for his father's instructions as a follower anxiously waiting for his leader's next words.

"They would not see my dream, but we shall make them see it… I will either have you all or they will die." The Emperor bid them rise. "Do this secretly, my sons; until the time to strike, when I give the signal, things must be as they always were."

They stood as one and swore their allegiance, not only to their father once more, as they had done when he had first set foot upon the worlds he had found them upon, but to the powers that walked alongside him.

* * *

><p>Magnus woke with a start, the sweat pouring from his brow, and for the first time in his life he knew what it was to feel fear. He reached for a goblet but his shaking hand spilled it from the desk, sending it crashing to the floor and spilling its contents.<p>

He breathed several times to try and calm his superhuman body; he had tried to see if his dream, nay his nightmare, was just that or real, but instead of calm, after such a confirmation all he could see was the same waking vision.

His father…

He had told his father, countless times, that no matter how much he thought he could control the powers of the Warp better than any other, eventually they might make him an offer that even he could not refuse, just as in the hypotheticals he described with regard to Magnus himself.

His father had laughed at him and told him that he, and he alone, knew how to work the Warp, and that for all his power Magnus was not yet ready to contain or control such abilities.

Now, it would appear, neither did his father.

He got up; Horus had to be told, and Horus would know what to do.


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Yep, that's where we begin - the Emperor turns to Chaos. Except that the Emperor is initially far more powerful than Horus, and correspondingly more ambitious...

* * *

><p>Perturabo watched cautiously as the Dark Angels disembarked from their troop ships and drop pods. His warsmiths stood around him, also watching the arrival of the First Legion with a perplexed air.<p>

It was not like the other legions to interfere in the personal work of the siege master. The Comrade folded his massive arms across his chest, his cold indifferent eyes giving nothing away, and none of the warsmiths dared ask what his thoughts were on this most unexpected turnaround.

Perturabo showed little interest in the machinations of his other brothers. He did not see eye to eye with any of them, for one reason or another, with only Horus and perhaps Vulkan as true exceptions. Fulgrim and Magnus were friends in much, but with deep, hushed disagreements as well.

He had received word that the Dark Angels were coming to aid them to find a solution to the siege of the Hansana Fortress. He had balked at that - the very idea that he, the Olympian, the siege master without peer, needed aid galled him; and as it had come directly from their father, it had made his father look all the slighter in the sullen Primarch's eyes.

Forrix, captain of the First Grand Company, bowed before his father. "Forgive me, my lord," he began, "but why has the First Legion been sent here? The Emperor, beloved by all, knows how we operate."

It was a while before his Primarch spoke, and when he did it was in that same tone that he always used, a cadence that would never let anyone know or understands what he really thought, not even his sons.

"That, my son, is a good question," he rumbled darkly.

* * *

><p>The Warsmiths bowed as the Lion joined his brother and clasped his hand in a warrior's grip. The Dark Angels with him bowed their heads, but Mannran and Hardan, two of Perturabo's human bodyguard, noticed that the Dark Angels did this more out of instinct then any real respect for their father. When this observation had settled in their heads, they found themselves gripping their halberds tightly.<p>

Still, despite what they and their brothers might have thought, the fact that they were in the presence of two mighty demi-gods awed them beyond belief. The human officers of the Olympian Imperial Army had to avert their eyes, lest they were unmanned by the sight of the two giants standing together.

The Lion looked over the trenches that his brother's sons had dug and nodded to himself. He had to admit that, when it came to this type of war-craft, even Rogal Dorn could learn a thing or two. The Lion found it amusing that his brothers referred to Perturabo as The Comrade; but he, like his brothers, was also curious, for instance about how the Iron Warriors, like the Iron Hands, managed to have such an affinity towards technology, which had led them to occasional alliances with the Mechanicum.

Not a lot impressed the Lion; but the way Perturabo seemed to sweep his stern gaze over a siegescape and know instinctively where to place elements of his legion and the supporting titans was nothing short of uncanny.

The people of this world, called by the locals D'reana Jackala or (as it translated into High Gothic) Sandstorm Plateau, had not wanted to become part of the mighty Imperium. They had long held onto the tenets of their own orders and beliefs and saw no reason why they should have to give them up. So the Iron Warriors had swept across the continent, a single landmass surrounded by one ocean, like hell unleashed. They may be masters of siege warfare, but when it came to close combat, then there were those that said they were more berserk then even the World Eaters or Blood Angels.

In a matter of days, the Iron Warriors had brought down the majority of this desert world's bastions, and now only this mighty fortress remained. The trenches had been dug overnight, and at a speed faster than anyone would have thought plausible; still, this was only the first parallel.

Perturabo ignored his observing brother and stood directly before the bastion. His mighty arms were folded across his chest, his harsh eyes boring into the hiding soldiers. His own enhanced senses heard the terrified hammering of their hearts, as well as the stink of their fear as it manifested in sweat and urinated britches and loosened bowels.

These were soldiers on the brink of surrender, and he had herded them, like a shepherd, into this fortress. It would not stand; he had already worked out the exact amount of firepower needed to bring it down. Still, this was what he did best, and he had some inane need to wipe the stern expression off the faces of the First Legion.

"Hear me and hear me well," he boomed, his voice causing more humans to cower in fear.

They had never had to face such an enemy before; they thought they were demons sent by the dark gods to take them into slavery or, worse, to feast on them. When the Iron Warriors had heard this, they had found some amusement in it. Had they been the World Eaters, that might have been a little bit closer to the mark. Still, it had served a purpose. They were fed up here and they wanted to be elsewhere; but they knew that the Emperor, beloved by all, would expect their father to pick a squad to garrison the world.

And that was something else that was getting on their collective nerves and rattled their father, too. They had brought worlds into the Imperium as well as any other legion; but that was overlooked, a lot.

"I will give you but one chance to lay down your arms," Perturabo's voice brought his sons out of their collective musings, "you have until sunrise tomorrow to surrender your arms and open the gates. This is the only chance you will get."

He stood for a moment longer, as if to emphasis his point. Then, turning his back, he walked back to where his brother stood and took him into the command tent, dismissing the other officers.

When Primarchs got together, it was for their ears only, and no one else had a right to listen.

"So, Lion," Perturabo closed the flap on his tent and met his brother's eyes, "what brings you to this godforsaken planet?"

The Lion smiled a little, and straight away a shiver of warning wound its way down The Comrade's spine. It was not a feeling he was used to and it was unpleasant.

"Father wishes this world to be taught a special lesson, brother, about how not to battle against his will and his sons."

"You know how I operate, Lion; I do not just murder a fortress or world in revenge for an insult to the Imperium, and they get one chance to surrender, no more."

The Lion moved round the tent, brushing his fingers against the desk that housed the plans that the warsmiths and their father made. It was a long while before he spoke, and when he did, his voice sounded haughtier then it usually did to the Lord of Olympia's ears.

"Things are changing, brother, and we are here to aid you."

"I do not need your help," he spat.

"Indeed." The Lion inclined his head a little, accepting that this was probably not the right choice of words. "My words were poorly chosen, Perturabo, and I – apologise. I just feel that it is a shame that your brave sons must forever garrison worlds that the humans can manage. "

"It's never been an issue before now." Not to anyone outside the Legion, at least. Perturabo frowned a little.

"Like I said, brother, things are changing; and if the humans within that bastion are foolish enough to continue this war, then allow me and my sons to wage war alongside you."

Perturabo nodded, but he did not like this sudden show of brotherly affection by the Lion: it was out of character. This was not the Lion El'Jonson he knew, and that was in itself cause for concern.

* * *

><p>Dawn seemed a long time in coming for the Imperial Army and their Astarte masters. But if it was a long time for them, it was probably even worse for the warriors behind the walls of the fortress.<p>

Once, they had been complacent in their view that these fortresses of stone could withstand any attack by any invader; and had it been any other invader that might have been true. Had it been any other Astartes, perhaps with a special exception to the Imperial Fists, they might still have held out.

But this was the Comrade, the siege master, and there was not a fortress built that he could not raze to the ground. This was why his father chose him for this kind of warfare: because despite his brothers rubbing it in his face that Dorn was also a master of fortifications, none other could do what he did.

The sun climbed the morning sky sluggishly, almost as if it knew that this might be the last day that the people of this world would gaze upon it after a journey of many millennia. Even the birds had fallen silent, and Perturabo, for a moment, felt sorrow for this world. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there nevertheless, not that he let anyone see it. He had a job to do, and he did not want his brother upstaging him like he seemed to upstage everyone else around him. This was his theatre of war, and the Lion would listen to what he had told him.

Whether he liked it or not.

Forrix shook his head as his father stood beside him. "They have not surrendered, my lord," he quietly said. "I see guns on the emplacements and along the walls. They want to die, I think."

"Then we shall give them their wish." He nodded to himself. "Shame, really, but they have brought this upon themselves… sons of Olympia, let's show them what it means to die with honour."

* * *

><p>The warriors in the bastion fought with all they had left, though they may have been afraid of the giants in burnished silver with black shoulder pauldrons and yellow chevrons. They could not stop the rain of death and destruction as the mighty titans and guns that accompanied the Iron Warriors wherever they went brought the walls of their impenetrable fortress tumbling down.<p>

When the restates came over the walls, both Iron Warriors and Dark Angels cut them down like they were nothing more than training dummies. The blood turned the remnants of the fortress stone red. Their rifles were no match against the bolters that barked into soft flesh, blowing them to pieces, or power swords that cut them in half, cauterising the cuts as they went with their intense heat.

Lion El'Jonson roared an affirmation to the Emperor that Perturabo was not altogether sure he had heard correctly. The two Primarchs battled their way to the central tower, although 'battled' was probably not the correct word. 'Massacred' their way would have been more to the point.

When they got to the top, Perturabo lowered his mighty warhammer and stood, looking at the terrified women and children, hidden here, huddling together. He had just killed warriors who really were no match for him or his sons, but he was not now about to kill civilian women and children. He stopped his brother as he came in, and looked at the leader of the shattered people. The sound of the guns, his power, and the screams of dying and wounded joined into a cacophony of noise that surrounded him; and it was working in breaking his will. Perturabo felt some anger, but so much of his mind was worried about the Lion that he decided to simply be merciful.

"Your women and children will live in the new Imperium; if you wish to live, stop now. You have my word that nothing more will befall your warriors; they have my respect, but they have lost against the forces of the Emperor."

The man closed his eyes and looked at the terrified family groups. They had been protecting their families. The news had reached him that not many people had survived the initial onslaught of the Iron Warriors.

He heaved a shuddery breath. "What will happen to us…will you kill me for not surrendering to you at dawn?"

Perturabo was about to answer when the Lion walked up to the terrified man and raised him off the ground.

"What are you doing?" Perturabo roared.

"Carrying out our fathers will," the Lion retorted. "Your people will live to serve the master of mankind, but you will not; he has no need for a broken leader." And with a deft flick of his wrist, the First Primarch broke the man's neck.

Perturabo stared and then roared. He grabbed the Lion and threw him clean out the room. He turned to his First Company. "Take the humans out of here. And the fighting stops now; we have won, do not allow any more to die."

"Yes, my lord." Forrix bowed his head and did as his father ordered, mobilising his company at the same time.

Perturabo stood over the Lion as he got to his feet. "What did you do that for?"

"Brother, they would have rebelled, you know this; your adoptive father's followers still vex you even now…"

"That," the Comrade hauntingly warned, "is none of your concern. I told him he was not going to die, then you killed him! You have dishonoured me!"

"I did what was the right thing to do," the Lion corrected

"That was not the right thing to do!" Perturabo, usually so calm and quiet, his brooding nature making his brothers and those who did not really understand him see him as a petulant child, roared his anger.

"You think they would have stayed loyal?" The Lion laughed incredulously. "They would have rebelled and you know it."

"I know nothing of the sort," Perturabo growled, "and I don't know why you were sent here; but get your sons and get out of my theatre."

"I told you why, brother; things are changing and you will change with them."

"On whose say so? That of a man so paranoid he sends half of his legion back to Caliban to forget them?" Admittedly, not as poisonous as the barb about Dammekos - how did the Lion know that anyway? Perturabo sneered nevertheless. "If this is your idea of change, brother, I want no part of it," he spat and stood straighter. "Get out of my LZ."

The Iron Warriors watched as the Lion led his sons away. Perturabo narrowed his eyes. There was no reason to kill that man: he had been beaten and he would have been a loyal citizen, of this the lord of Olympia was certain. And even if he had been a risk, what the Lion had done was still beyond belief.

"Get the remembrancers here," he barked, "bring the Imperial Truth to this world."


	5. Chapter Five

The Blood Angels stood sentinel over the populace of Racas; and alongside them stood their cousins of the Alpha Legion. Months of work on the Alpha Legion's part had ensured that this had been a relatively bloodless transition. There were pockets of resistance, but the Imperial Army was finishing them quickly and efficiently.

In the vast senate hall, Sanguinius and Alpharius were accepting the terms of surrender. Alpharius had to admit that by the standards of lost worlds, this illumination had been a lot easier than he had first suspected it would be.

His skill with covert operations had been the reason his Legion had been chosen as the ones to aid Sanguinius in this endeavour. It was the first time that the two brother Primarchs had warred alongside each other.

He had admired the sons of Baal in their attunement to their father; they seemed to follow everything he did with not only a desire born from their genetics (something everyone forgot was the main reason the Fourth, Eighth, and Twelfth Legions were still intact), but from a genuine love for him. Then again, it was not hard to see why. Alpharius prided himself on his independence from sibling rivalries and the sometimes-sycophantic actions of some of his other brothers (yes, even that overblown incident with Guilliman); and yet what was generally said about the Angel was perfectly true.

Most relevantly at the moment, his wisdom made him a great diplomat, and his nature swayed most people to his way of thinking. It was well-known that the Warmaster himself cherished Sanguinius above all his brothers and accepted his council without the need to wonder about hidden agendas.

Alpharius himself had said very little during the proceedings, leaving it all to his more diplomatic brother; but that did not mean that he was not watching what was going on around him. He was not comfortable here. There was something not altogether _right_ about this, and he had told his brother that he would be keeping watch over the proceedings. Sanguinius had agreed: he never disputed his brothers' gut feelings unless he thought they were utterly unfounded, and even he had sensed that this had perhaps been a little too easy.

Not that he was not relieved at the success - the mighty Angel relished when illumination went easily - but from his experience, too, this had been a little too ill-fittingly convenient. When the leader of Racas, a tall yet strangely feminine looking man by the name of Ferrac, withdrew to deliberate the terms that the Astartes had put forward, Sanguinius joined his brother's side.

He lowered his voice, and his head, to prevent anyone else from listening to what he was about to say to his brother.

"Whilst they are happy to become part of the Imperium, they are not ready to embrace the Emperor."

"Beloved by all," Alpharius intoned.

"Indeed," Sanguinius nodded slightly.

"It is as if they are stalling," Alpharius scratched his jaw a little and cast an erratic glance around him, "waiting for something else."

Sanguinius agreed and took a quick look over his brother. He had no hair and there was a slight copper tinge to his skin; the fact that he had a resemblance to Horus, and was the only one of the brothers with a strong one, made Sanguinius wonder back at the rumors of the events on Sixty-Three Nineteen, and of a new distance between Horus and Alpharius. He was called The Specialist and there was a reason for it - when it came to covert actions and information gathering, there was none better than Alpharius. His information network was second to none, and although Sanguinius did not, and indeed none of the other Primarchs did, know how he did it, the network was never wrong.

His information was always spot on. Which was why Sanguinius took note when Alpharius's heavyset brow furrowed a little, as if he was musing over some tidbit of an idea that had been nestling in his cranium.

"Ask for a few days adjournment, brother," Alpharius finally spoke, "and I will look into this further."

Sanguinius rubbed his own jaw, and his golden locks moved in sync with his agreement. Alpharius catalogued yet another reason why the Angel was considered the most noble of them all.

"That will not be an issue; but what do you expect to find, my brother?" Sanguinius was curious now.

"Hopefully nothing," Alpharius replied, but the tone of his voice did not reflect his hope. He flashed the rune on the helm referring to his first captain Ingo Pech, who responded immediately.

"My lord?"

"Have Hurt and Peto ready for me upon my return to the Alpha." He glanced over his shoulder at the door where Ferrac and his entourage had left moments before. "I have a job for them and Rukhsana." It didn't necessarily have to be them, but the potential symmetry was pleasing.

"It shall be done."

* * *

><p>Ferrac closed the door behind him and shooed his entourage away. He did not need their constant chattering to know that these men from the stars could blow them away with their space power in but an instant. He could tell that behind the veneer of the one that had introduced himself as Sanguinius, as well as of the other who was called Alpharius, the sort of person who left behind death and destruction lurked, and none too far from the surface. He sat before his dresser and held his own gaze in the mirror for some time.<p>

He was handsome, and he had his choice of lovers each night (whether they were male or female he did not much care); there was a release in pleasure that gave him a high like some addict, that nothing else ever did. But now was not the time.

He had been bored during his school years; the tutors never seemed to want to expand on the things that he wanted to talk about, such as, most notably, the goddess Nasheba and her origins. She of the dual heritage, Nasheba being her feminine side and Torjara the male aspect, had become somewhat of an obsession for him early on. He had lost count of the amount of times he had been sent to the priest to confess such an unholy fascination with the dark queen and black king. He eventually decided that he would outright worship them in secret; his parents were wealthy enough, due to his father's business acumen and his mother's political strategies, that this was plausible.

Then it had happened. The years of wanting to follow this deity in the open, to bring about her message of peace and love, had all come to fruition. She had appeared to him, he had been vindicated in his years of devotion to her, and her servant had shown him ever more pleasures of the flesh.

Ferrac had been a most willing pupil; and now, as he sat, regarding his reflection and tsking as he found some kohl out of place and smoothed it away, he recalled the secret meetings. There were others like him; others who wished to follow the king and queen of pleasure and who had been stifled in their beliefs. No one had bothered to question the disappearance of the whores or the stray children; he had learnt that their lives would be best suited to a servitude that he envied. And, after all, the most delicious soul to be served was that of an innocent.

He had taken every step, too, to ensure that he gained power, more than following in his illustrious mother's footsteps; by the time he was twenty-five summers old he ruled this world, in large part due to his own merits.

"She has brought you great success, has she not?"

He turned, momentarily startled at the deep voice behind him, and watched as a figure stepped into the light of his private quarters.

"Nasheba has always looked after me," he sniffed haughtily. "Your father needs not worry; I know what must be done."

The man stepped closer - no, not a man, a giant in cerise armour with gold lining. Upon his chest blazed a two-headed eagle etched in the finest gold plate. As he removed his helm, the hiss of the seal was almost a sigh. Against his waist sat a sword of the most exquisite design, and his face was the most beautiful face he had ever seen (and he had seen many beautiful faces - though most were attached to more beautiful bodies).

"Make sure that you do, Lord Ferrac," the Astarte softly spoke, "for your dark god is our mistress as well, and we are her chosen sons."

"How can you be her chosen sons?" he scoffed. "You came to me, some months ago, knowing next to nothing about her; and here you are, telling me that all of a sudden you are her chosen?"

He turned away from the behemoth; he was continuing to realign his makeup when he was yanked out of his seat and held by his throat. There was no threat in the giant's face, only - well, primarily an inquiry into how the human was acting. The grip was loose around his neck, but Ferrac was under no illusions: this behemoth could, if he so chose, snap it like a twig, and that thought send a shudder of pleasure through him.

He enjoyed the pain as much as the pleasure, and that in itself was what amused the giant. Was it what had saved his life too?

"Do not mock me," the Astartes unnecessarily warned. "You are to allow the Blood Angels and the Alpha Legion to leave here thinking that they have achieved illumination."

"And then what?" Ferrac smiled, and part of him was almost pleading to be closer to this white-haired Adonis before him.

"Then we shall begin;" the Astarte set him down, "your world will become the mainstay of this system, where you will raise temples to the Emperor and to my father as we ensure that our dark lady-lord of pleasure has a new place to call home."

Ferrac rubbed his neck and nodded a little. "And you are?" he asked for the third time, "you have never told me your name."

The Astartes turned his back and seemed to meld into the shadows of the room. "Lucius," he replied, before leaving the chamber.


	6. Chapter Six

The Third Primarch, Fulgrim the Phoenician, stood before the window and contemplated the galaxy and his place in it - and that of his sons, the Emperor's Children, the pride of the master of mankind and the only one of their brother legions to bear the sacred Aquila, the symbol of the growing Imperium and the Emperor himself.

It had taken Fulgrim a while to accept the new direction that his father was taking them all in, much like his closest brother Ferrus Manus, and he had expressed some doubts in his father's plans. Lorgar had listened to him and told him that doubts were to be expected.

Not long before that decisive meeting, the Emperor had sent Fulgrim and his sons to the planet of the Laer, and he had returned with a sword so exquisite that, after learning of the truth of myths, he had decided it had been carved and forged for the Emperor and the Emperor alone. He had presented it as a gift to his father, but a while later he had been given the sword back, in recognition of the ideals that he strove to instill into his sons and as a lesson in Warp biology. Fulgrim loved the sword's beauty, as he loved all art and everything that was aesthetically pleasing to him.

He had arrived on Chemos as an infant, and on that resource-poor world of rationing and regulated birth allowances he was, grudgingly, allowed to live. Although looking back on it, he had often wondered if it would have been possible for the Chemosians to kill a Primarch, infant or otherwise. The irony of all this was that, when the ruling family of the settlement of Callax took him in, he was given the name of a long-forgotten god. Like all Primarchs, he grew to manhood quickly and was soon forging his own legend. He turned the fortunes of the dying planet around and, half a century later, Fulgrim was the sole leader of a prosperous Chemos. Fulgrim was an agent of perfection; he had quickly realized there was no other being more perfect than the Emperor, before he even took command of the III Legion for the first time.

When he did, he discovered that a mysterious accident had destroyed the vast majority of his gene-seed, and as a result he only had two hundred warriors to call his sons. Such was the speech that he delivered to them, at reunion's zenith, that his father officially gave them the name The Emperor's Children and soon thereafter allowed them, and them alone, to bear his symbol on their breastplates. The Emperor's Children were perfectionists (the quest for perfection incarnate, to an extent), and this would often bring them into odds with their brother legions, none more so than the World Eaters. Honestly, Fulgrim enjoyed the sniping with his brother. He liked the occasional challenge, and whilst there was an amount of animosity, neither Angron nor Fulgrim were conflicted about their heritage, and thus they were now joined under their father's new banner.

Fulgrim ran his hand along the sword pommel and stared out, into the vastness of space. He had anchored his vessel behind the moon of Racas. The Pride of the Emperor had used and amplified the moon's natural shielding to prevent them from being detected by either the Alpha of the Alpha Legion or the Blood of Baal of the Blood Angels. He had taken Lorgar's word on this world being crucial, and had secretly been guiding the populace towards accepting the rule of the Emperor; however, as it had been Sanguinius and Alpharius who had fought the initial battle, it would not have been correct to march in there and take over.

He heard his door open and, without breaking his stare, asked, "Yes?"

"My lord." He recognised the voice of Lucius. "It is done."

Ordinarily it would have been Eidolon who would bring this news to him, but he had ordered Lucius to report to him and him alone. For whatever reason, he seemed to have a way with this Ferrac mortal.

"Do you believe he will accept the agreement?" Fulgrim arched a perfect eyebrow and Lucius was well aware that his father, his glorious Primarch, did not believe this mortal would follow through on his word.

In fact, Lucius was even more convinced that the human would renege on the deal as soon as a better offer, or at least one that would see him in a greater position of power, came along. The captain of the 13th Company relayed these thoughts to his Primarch.

Fulgrim rose from his seat and Lucius felt both his hearts beat faster; when the Phoenician rested a hand on his shoulder, his already large pride shone brighter. Lucius was called the pretty boy of his brothers; in truth, he had always cared little what they said behind his back.

* * *

><p>His wish was to be perfect in the eyes of his father and his grandfather. In that, Lucius was, at least, on par with the other Emperor's Children. He looked down on other Legions, particularly the more barbaric ones like the World Eaters, Space Wolves, and even the Blood Angels and Luna Wolves, who, in his eyes, were led by gods that weren't even close to the Phoenician's perfection.<p>

Fulgrim turned his back and resumed staring at the moon before him. He had been under orders from his father to ensure that this world was to be loyal; but, though their father's plans were to be done in utmost secrecy, he had also been ordered that, the moment these people rejected Sanguinius's or Alpharius's diplomatic overtures, they were to be taught a lesson. In truth, the Emperor had ordered all the Primarchs to be more brutal, to better hold the Imperium together in such uncertain times.

Fulgrim turned his head to where Lucius was kneeling, head bowed. As arrogant as the young pup was, he was probably the best swordsman in the Legion, and moreover a competent captain. His father willing, under the patronage of the being called Slaanesh, men like Lucius would be the future of the Legion.

"Lucius."

"My lord?"

"This moon; you are aware it affects the gravity of this planet, like our own Luna used to govern the tides in the ancient days when Terra had oceans?"

Lucius joined his father's side and nodded. "I would assume so, my lord."

Fulgrim nodded. "We cannot directly attack should they decide to go back on their agreement, for that would be my brothers' domain… we could, however, destroy this moon and make it look like an accident of nature to the other Legions." Fulgrim's handsome eyes bore into his son, and Lucius felt his hearts hammer harder and a swell of pride wash through him.

"Who knows the workings of the universe, my lord? I do believe the debris from such an explosion would place this world at some risk."

"Like?"

Lucius straightened himself. "The first aspect of the destruction of the moon by any 'normal' means, such as collisions with asteroids or sufficient bombs, is the debris. The debris caused by any such mechanism would be captured into Racas' atmosphere, blocking out the sun for decades and coating the world in moon dust. This would quickly lead to the death of all plant life and subsequently all animal life as well.

"Even if the moon were to simply vanish or be vaporized without a trace, it would not bode well for life. Weather would be adversely affected. This is due to the world's spin around its axis. First, Racas would eventually spin faster because the gravity of the moon causes some drag on the spin; somewhat more immediately, the angle of the planet's axis could change. This tilt is what causes the seasons. If it were to change, Racas would get hotter or colder, affecting living conditions for millions of species.

"Most importantly, the moon is responsible for most of the tidal effects in the ocean. Current ocean life depends on the tides for feeding and availability of resources. A lot of weather patterns also depend on the tides and ocean currents. So yes, my father, a sudden disappearance of the moon could mean disaster for them all."

Lucius watched Fulgrim's knowing face and smiled a little. "But of course you know this, my lord."

Fulgrim rested his hand once more on Lucius's shoulder. "Forgive me, my son; I was curious as to your own knowledge. Speak with the tech-priests and see what they say. If things are to go this way, then I will need the ability to make this look like an accident of the universe."

"Yes, my lord."

Lucius bowed his head and made for the doors of the strategium. Fulgrim watched as he left and nodded to himself; that one would need watching. There was something special about him, and Fulgrim was curious as to why Eidolon had not brought the 13th Captain to his attention before.


	7. Chapter Seven

The lord of the Blood Angels was beginning to lose the last of his patience with the pompous fop before him. The mighty Sanguinius was known for his patience - some even likened his cool, calm demeanour to that of ancient Terran 'saints' - but this man had managed to gnaw most of even that away. He was happy to do as his brother asked, and, although he was not privy to precisely what actions his brother had put in motion, he knew that they were done only to get to the end of this tedious and arduous journey, to finally return with his sons to the great crusade.

Come to think of it… he did not like the way that this Ferrac looked at him. He had seen his mortal crew and his own people on Baal with the same expression, usually when they had met the partner of their dreams. He sometimes, though rarely, envied that aspect of the human nature that was so alien to him; he was built to wage war and build empires for his father, but occasionally he did wonder what that look that passed between man and woman (or, in some cases, man and man or woman and woman) felt like.

Now, he had the distinct feeling that he knew. He heard a chuckling behind him and glanced round to see Alpharius with a slight smile on his face. That stunned him - in the short time that he had known his brother, he had never smiled, and here he was, with true mirth etched onto him.

When Ferrac ordered his scribes to draw up the new version of his wishes, ending yet another session without real progress, he took the time to ask his brother what was so amusing.

"Forgive me, brother," Alpharius cleared his throat, "it is just I, too, read human emotions, and it would seem that the lord of this world has a – soft spot for you, more so than most mortals meeting a Primarch"

"Well, it should get him to end this farce soon then…"

"That is not what I meant."

Sanguinius arched an eyebrow, then rolled his eyes as he realised Alpharius was speaking of the same as his own earlier thoughts. "Then he is going to be slightly disappointed, isn't he?" Alpharius snorted a little; coming from a Primarch, such things could sound like a consumptive bull, but right now Alpharius actually sounded like a normal human. "Any news yet?"

Alpharius stood straighter. "I will go find out. It has been several days, brother, and I am beginning to wonder if this fop is as much as he seems."

Well, that was a good question. "So, answer me something."

"If I can."

"Why is it that your sons always say, 'I am Alpharius'?"

"It is the way of my Legion, brother; we are all one, and like the Hydra of myth, cut off one head another grows in its place. I am the Primarch, but my sons are also Primarchs: they are me and I am them."

Sanguinius mused a little. Most Primarchs wanted to have that feeling of oneness with their sons, but in reality it was almost impossible: a Primarch was far above the Astartes, just as the Astartes were to mortals. It was good, however, that the Alpha Legion seemed to have worked at that, and it had become part of their nature.

(Had he known the Alpha Legion's most guarded secret, would he have known that he was actually talking to Omegon and not Alpharius?)

The other Primarch took his leave and walked outside to meet the other men with him. "Forsch," he addressed his sergeant in the Ephite Squad, "any news?"

"Perhaps, my lord; you had better come with me. This is for silent ears only."

Perfectly knowing how his sons and his brother valued their secrecy, Omegon agreed. And yet some part of him still wished he could have told Sanguinius that he was his brother too. However, that was not the way, and he was not about to break the rules of the legion on a whim.

He walked with Forsch to where the three agents his brother had sent out to discover more about this world were sat. They looked awful. Peto appeared like he had gone ten rounds with a Grokian Bull and only just won, Hurt was nursing a broken arm, and the Uxor was sparked out in unconsciousness.

"What happened?" he asked, concerned at their appearance and wondering what the hell the three experienced agents had walked into.

"The Chemos Third Intelligence, my lord." Peto struggled to stand, but Omegon stayed him and sat across from him.

"Tell me all of it, Peto."

* * *

><p>There were dozens of networks of agents working for the Alpha Legion. Some agents were more powerful then others, and some had what appeared to be menial jobs; but in reality, nothing related to the Alpha Legion could be considered menial.<p>

Alpharius and Omegon recruited from various organizations across the worlds they brought into compliance, but Alpharius particularly liked those they had recruited from the Geno Five-Two Chiliad.

An Imperial Army attachment with their own proud genetic heritage, their fate sealed by the dual Primarchs themselves. The three that Alpharius had ordered sent into the field were a constant source of pride to him, and not only due to their origins. They might not have been comfortable in their new lives to begin with, working under the cloak of secrecy that surrounded their Astarte lords, but they became part of the hydra soon enough.

This time, Alpharius had been quite explicit in his orders: to find out about these people, and to see if there were any secrets that they and the Blood Angels' lord should know about. They had ingratiated themselves into the planets society and had been bemused by what they had seen. The Racasian people appeared to the trio to be nothing more than overly hedonistic.

Their artists, though, had certainly created breathtaking frescoes of their world's patron deities, as noted by the three when walking, as remembrancers, into a Racasian museum. These gods would soon be forgotten under the veil of enlightenment. Nevertheless, the images made them shiver a little. In fact, Rukhsana was not comfortable looking at the paintings for too long. Hurt and Peto felt somewhat edgy, but their Uxor kept moving back. One of the guides had come over and, mistaking their discomfort for curiosity, began to explain.

He pointed to the serpentine headed god, painted holding a staff that emanated what appeared to be great magical power of some sort, wearing a cloak that was a riot of colours almost blinding in their intensity, his neck and arms covered with shimmering feathers that seemed to change shades in a way that never repeated. They were told he was called Nekathara, the lord of the past, present and future, and that he rode the waves of power with great mastery. All mortals' paths were connected to him in some way, shape or form.

The next fresco was a muscularly built warrior, naked from the waist up. His skin and hair were the colour of blood, but that was hardly surprising, considering he was bathed in the stuff. Behind him sat a throne of skulls, and at his feet, rotting faces halfway between necrotic flesh and white bone. They were told that this was Karnath, their god of war, but the three agents saw there was more to this than war. He was surrounded by standing, baying warriors decapitating women and children.

Beside that was a fresco of their lord of decay and death; he was a slender figure whose very touch brought destruction. There were people around the feet of this warrior whose bodies were writhing with all manners of disease. They were told that this was Daera, master of degradation, although they could see that for themselves.

The majority of the people in the gallery, though, were gathered around a portrait of a beautiful man, a woman either beside him or conjoined to him, but breathtaking either way. The attendant looked upon the painting with rapture and muttered only, "Nasheba."

"We need to go." Rukhsana felt like throwing up, and when she got no answer from Hurt and Peto, she looked slightly up to see them staring, with the same expression as the attendant on their face. Taking care not to glance at the planet's supreme godhead, she grabbed them both and pulled them outside the gallery. Her stomach stopped whirling, and they both shook their heads as if waking from some dream.

"Thank you, Uxor," Peto breathed, "but what _was_ that?"

"Some ancient power is in those portraits," she muttered. "I do not like what this means. What are you looking at, Hurtado?"

He sat on the bottom step of the gallery and pulled them both down beside him. He said nothing until the men and women he had been looking at walked past and out of sight.

"Answer me one thing," he muttered, raising his head, "given that the Geno - I mean Alpha Legion - and the Blood Angels with their auxiliaries are supposed to be the only ones here. What in the name of the throne is the Chemos Third Intelligence doing here?"

Peto and Rukhsana glanced uneasily at each other; this could only mean one thing, and that was not good. If the Chemos intelligence corps were here, then there was an Emperor's Children presence; but why did they not let the two Primarchs know they were here?

"We will follow," Rukhsana finally said, "and I will shield us as best I can; but remember, boys, my cept is not as strong as it once was."

They nodded, knowing that was true; the power of the Uxor burnt out when they hit thirty, hence the need to train one of the young girls in their retinue. They followed their quarry at a distance; but so intent were they on finding out what was going on and not being noticed from the front, they forgot to check their backs.

They were surrounded, and without a word being spoken, beaten to the ground.

* * *

><p>Omegon listened as Peto finished his account and glanced at his sergeant. He needed Alpharius here. "Time to recall the Quarn delegation." He rested a hand on Peto's shoulder "You have done well, Peto; I will have you three transported back to the Alpha."<p>

"Will Hurt and Rukhsana be okay?"

"They will, my friend. Get some rest; you have all done well." Though if he had commanded the Chemosians, he would not have let them get away alive; a competent police presence, or another piece of the puzzle?

Omegon nodded and let Apothecary Janus take his charges back to the ship. He turned to Forsch. "In your honest opinion, _what in the Warp_ are the Emperor's Children doing here, and why have they not let us know?"

"My lord, it could be that the guard were acting on their own accord. Sometimes intelligence services do that."

"True for our own allies, my friend," Omegon nodded, "but the Chemos Third Intelligence is never far from the Astartes. I will let Sanguinius know, and then we will deal with it together."

"My lord, Peto said the artwork had a strange effect on the Uxor, and to a lesser extent both him and Hurtado; should we look into that?"

"Not at the moment; I need to let my brother know what is going on. Do have the Alpha carry out a long range sweep, extending towards the outer system. I want to know if there is an Emperor's Children vessel out there."

Forsch slammed his fist into his breastplate. "For the Emperor!" Then, turning on his heel, he walked away to complete his lord's request.

The Emperor's Children, Omegon reflected as he walked back, were in the main puzzle; the puzzle of Primarch movements, solving which had led to approving the bungled Sixty-Three Nineteen operation. It was a puzzle whose solution would shape the future of the Imperium, and he was more than worried about the Emperor leaving him out of the loop. Did any of the others not know?

Did Sanguinius?

Omegon took a deep breath and walked back into the senate hall. When he told Sanguinius what had occurred, the master of the Blood Angels set his jaw tight as he realised they had been played with (though not, yet, how).

"Time to up the ante then, brother." The Angel narrowed his eyes and that, in itself, told Omegon that Sanguinius had at long last lost his patience.

"No more games," Omegon agreed, "they have hidden the presence of another Legion here, and I would like to know why."

"Have our Legions put on high alert; and if there is an Emperor's Children vessel in the area, I want it found."

Omegon inclined his head a little. "So it shall be." And, with Sanguinius in his gaze, he thought back to earlier considerations.

No, he would not reveal his secret on a whim. But if it became beneficial, in this fulcrum of the Imperium?

No rule lasted forever.


	8. Chapter Eight

Lucius watched as Lord Commander Verona took the full wrath of the Primarch, his head bowed as he knelt before the irate Fulgrim.

To watch his father in battle was an awesome sight; but as joyful as it was to watch Fulgrim stride the field of battle like the perfectly wrought war god that he was, his anger was something else. A Primarch's anger was a terrible thing to behold. It was akin to a violent tempest over the sea, or perhaps a titanic Warp Storm: there was nothing to placate it, and with it fear came even to the fearless. Had not Perturabo, who Fulgrim called friend, ordered a full tenth of his Legion killed upon meeting them, for being 'stupid and honourless barbarians'?

Lucius had seen the change in the Alpha Legion and Blood Angels, and soon thereafter he had heard the reports over the vox net. Geno Five-Two survivors, and thus presumably the Alpha Legion, were looking for members of the Chemos Third Intelligence.

As commander of the intelligence arm of the Third Legion, Verona was responsible for their actions, and he had offered no defence. It would not have done him any good anyway if he had; the mistake of underestimating the Alpha Legion had been his. In allowing the auxiliaries to go down and act as the eyes of the Legion, in this tentative step towards the Emperor's plans, they had gotten ahead of themselves.

Lucian watched; his helm was clamped firmly in place, but his eyes never left his father's irate pacing. Of all the Primarchs, he was the embodiment of perfection. Perfection in war, perfection in what little peace there was, and perfection, too, in justice.

Beside Lucius stood Saul Tarvitz and Captains Korander of the 37th Company, with Dasara of the 25th Company. All four had orders to keep the doors to the strategium shut and to witness the wrath of the Primarch as he dealt with failure. Other Primarchs might have demoted the Lord Commander back to the ranks; even the Phoenician might have done that, a decade ago, but that was not Fulgrim's way anymore.

He had ordered his vessel away from the system as soon as he had heard of the folly. As it was, that was just in time, as scout vessels from both the Blood Angels and the Alpha Legion began sweeping the system. Fulgrim knew that his brothers were aware of an Emperor's Children Presence in the area, but they were thankfully not aware of his own; and, whilst he could explain away his presence as a visit to one of his closer brothers and one that he knew little about, he could not easily explain away the beating given to Alpharius's presumed allies. (The Chemos Third Intelligence had been on strict no-kill orders towards other Imperials, at least. If they had killed the Chiliad, fleeing the system would not have been enough to settle the matter.)

Lord Commander Eidolon and Lord Commander Vespasian stood to either side of the Primarch's throne; Captains Kaesoron, Demeter, and Vairosean stood before it. They, like the others, were deemed members of Fulgrim's inner circle, and the four captains who guarded the entrance were honoured and humbled to, even for a day, be included in the most private of circles within the Emperors Children.

Except, that is, Lucius, who had expected this; but he had asked the Primarch if Tarvitz could join him. As his oldest friend, he thought it only right that Saul shared some of the glory.

Eidolon nodded curtly towards the captains and, without a word, Tarvitz and Lucius opened the doors, allowing the Phoenix Guard to walk in the members of the Third Intelligence who had disrupted their father's plans.

If Astartes cowered before the wrath of their father, the humans were on another level altogether. It did not escape Saul's, or indeed anyone else's, nasal sensibilities that, as the six humans set eyes on the infuriated god, their bladders and bowels were excavated.

Fulgrim screwed his nose up in distaste and ordered the door shut and bolted once more. As angry as he was that his carefully laid plans had gone to waste, he was also testing his warriors, measuring them to see if they could follow certain explicit orders. He descended the throne, his face a mask of sheer anger and made his way towards the four captains. Lucius, he knew, would carry out his orders. The other three he was not so certain of: of all the captains, they were among the few who had not yet seen Apothecary Bile.

"Saul." He stopped before the captain of the 10th Company. "Their actions went against all that we, as the Emperor's Children, hold dear. The tenements of my leadership of this perfectly wrought legion were ignored."

Saul swallowed once; like every other time his father addressed him, his tongue went dry, his two hearts beat furiously against his chest, and his eyes lit up with the love and pride he felt for this giant among men.

The Primarch seemingly read his mind: Fulgrim's visible anger faded, to be replaced by a paternal smile. He rested both his hands on the pauldrons of his 10th Captain and lowered his head a little.

"Tell me, Saul, why have you not visited my best Apothecary?" Fulgrim's voice was gentle now, but behind the paternal words there was still anger there, simmering at the edge of the cadence.

"I have not yet had the time, Sire," Saul replied, "as I have been running errands for Lord Commander Eidolon in case of boarding actions, Sire."

"A wise move," Fulgrim nodded, "but you will be going in time, won't you? I have noticed you, Saul."

And he had: Tarvitz was a man of the ranks made good, easy with his command and one of the brothers in all that mattered, and yet also with makings of something more. But, like with Lucius, he wanted to be sure about that.

"As my father commands."

Saul bowed his head; like all Astartes in the presence of their gene-sire, he could not hold those beautiful, magnificent eyes of Fulgrim's gaze forever.

"There; I knew you would, my son - like all my sons?" The other two captains bowed their heads and Fulgrim knew that he had them now. Not that there had truly been any doubt whatsoever in his mind.

He returned to the cowering, terrified mortals and didn't even look at them. He refocused his attention on Verona and drew his sword. Simultaneously with that gesture, Lucius, Saul, Korander and Dasara drew their own blades.

* * *

><p>"I will tolerate no deviation from my battle plans, and I must make an example." Fulgrim held his hand under Verona's chin and raised it. "You were one of my inner circle, but you let them do this: they could not have acted without your say-so. Know that I do this with a heavy heart, my son."<p>

Without another word (and to Verona's credit, he did not scream or beg for mercy, for there was none forthcoming), Fulgrim took his head in one clean stroke.

As his head hit the floor, the humans began to beg and plead for their lives; but it did them no good. The four swords of the four captains flashed in the air, cutting heads from necks cleanly, blood splattering the wall and the floor. The heads were to be put up on the deck reserved for the Chemos Third Intelligence: that way, they would be reminded of what happened to those who broke their masters' laws. It would work, too, and fear of the Phoenician's wrath would put pay to any words of dissent amongst the mortal crews. Not that this mess specifically had been caused by dissent, of course; but Fulgrim decided he might as well derive a benefit from his rage.

Fulgrim ordered the rest of the mortal intelligence services that accompanied them to have their commanders killed - all across the fleet, because this was far from the first of the Chemos Third Intelligence's failures. Kaesoron turned to Demeter and Vairosean.

"So it begins," the First captain sighed, "and for some ends. We'll need to choose new officers that are better, and yet do what they're told."

Lucius took his time cleaning the blood from his blade. He would pay a visit to that remembrancer soon, and she would cure the boredom between now and their next theatre of war. Not sexually, of course - he was an Astarte, and did not feel such a thing as lust.

Yet.


	9. Chapter Nine

**_Cry havoc and let lose the dogs of war_**.

Brother Sergeant Darelian recalled that phrase from an old Terran book he had been lent once by Remembrancer Jarred Olina, a cry of righteous brutality that had echoed through countless centuries; at this moment in time it seemed most apt.

His father Sanguinius and his 'uncle' Alpharius had destroyed the ruling class of this world with their bare hands. According to the official tale, their leader Ferrac had declared open hostility to the Primarchs, accusing them of heresy of the highest order against the world's pantheon. When one of the civilian remembrancers had been summarily executed before the Blood Angels' horrified eyes, that had been it, all bets were off - that, and the beating of three from Alpharius's own attachment of Imperial Army heritage, by - of all things - members of the Emperors Children's mortal intelligence corps, which sowed uncertainty regarding the Third Legion's role in all this.

The people saw killing the leaders as the last straw, and with the death of the ruling elite they rose up in open rebellion against the Astartes. It was the worst mistake they had ever made.

The Blood Angel led his men through the winding and maddening streets of Racas; despite having near-perfect memories from their rebirth, they occasionally seemed to get lost in the maze of streets.

His frustration grew as he heard the sounds of battle, and yet could not seem to find a way out of this maze. Some of the streets were brightly decorated and it made even his conditioned mind spin looking upon them. Then, the ground beneath them rumbled, and at first the ten-man squad believed it to be the sound of the Titans walking the earth. But the sound was far from being the awesome footfalls of a Titan, and the thing that rose from the earth below proved as much.

It was huge and monstrous, coming from below, roaring its ascent like a mythical leviathan. The skin dripped blood almost constantly, and the stench that rose from it was the scent of blood and ripped flesh. The skin was the colour of dried blood, seeming to ripple with waves like an ocean. Scales along its neck made it look well-armoured and longer, and yet the most horrific part of it was the body: it had the body of a scaled-up man, but with hands so clawed and razor-sharp that, before any of the Blood Angels could react, these claws rent across Brother Mardas, cutting through his armour and straight into his chest cavity.

It pulled its massive hand, dripping with gore and blood, back and held the two hearts in its hand. Brother Mardas seemed to sway for a moment or two, then fell flat on his face, dead.

Sergeant Darelian heavily cursed in Baalite and rallied his squad, bolters crashing with explosive results against the abomination. Chunks of flesh were ripped out and splattered on the floor and against the walls. This thing was strong, though, and it roared again in a language alien to the Astartes. Its jaw extended and lowered itself over the head of Brother Andreas then snapped shut and blood sprayed the other Astartes.

They roared their anger, and their grief at the loss of a brother showed through in intensifying choleric moods. Darelian drew his sword, a gift from the Primarch himself that never left his side.

"FOR BAAL, FOR SANGUINIUS, FOR THE EMPEROR!" he roared and leapt into the air.

The sword flashed down, catching the system's sun, which seemed to be bathed in a red glow. The abomination raised its talons and impaled Darelian, crushing many of his organs, but not before the sword pierced the top of its head and ran straight through. The monster toppled, slowly.

"Apothecary!" Brother Lemi yelled.

* * *

><p>Alpharius and Sanguinius strode through the battle together, with the apparent power of enraged gods. To see them war together was a rare sight indeed, for Alpharius very rarely warred alongside his own brothers, preferring the company of his twin and his legion alone.<p>

To the Astartes following in their gene-sires' wakes, it was almost like watching Horus and Sanguinius once more. The Primarchs destroyed all that they found, spurred on by news of abominations and strange beings coming over their voxes, their anger renewed by Imperial Army and Astarte casualties.

By the setting of the blood-red sun, there was nothing left of Racas except a charnel house of vast proportions.

"Burn it," Alpharius snarled, "burn it all!"

* * *

><p>Lorgar listened as Fulgrim raged about how his plans had gone awry, watching as his snow-haired brother paced up and down like a caged beast. Lorgar had arrived a few days ago, at Fulgrim's behest.<p>

That was unusual, as under normal circumstances Fulgrim would not have sought Lorgar's counselling, but these were hardly normal circumstances anymore. Fulgrim had boarded the Kamiel without any entourage, his need personal.

Like the majority of his brothers, who all had human mentors, the exceptions including Curze and Angron, Lorgar had kept his adoptive father with him.

The Lion, for example, had ensured that Luther held a position within the Dark Angels, but had never put him in Power Armour and instead had left him in charge of the Legion fortress on Caliban. Rogal had kept his cloak, given by his adoptive grandfather, as a remembrance of a man long dead; Horus had the Emperor as his guide and mentor. But of them all, Lorgar had been the only one to have his adoptive father join the legion and yet stay, to some extent, his second father.

Fulgrim ceased his pacing and eyed the First Captain of the Word Bearers with suspicion. Lorgar always was fanatical about his beliefs, but Kor Phaeron was more than even that. The only augmented human within the Legion, almost human, according to some an Astartes in name only.

Their father had named Lorgar the spiritual guide of his inner circle, which no one had complained about, for Lorgar was doubtlessly a spiritual man. He did not have the warrior blood of his brothers in any great amount, but when it came to the crunch, he could fight, like any of them.

Fulgrim motioned with his head, towards where a glowering Kor Phaeron stood, just behind his Primarch's throne. Kor Phaeron did not agree with many of the other Primarchs, and some of the time he did not even agree with his own adoptive son; but he respected most of them. Fulgrim, though - he could see exactly why Angron and Fulgrim could not be in the same room for too long. He found Fulgrim an irritating fop, and he had no idea why his son would even want to respond to this drivel, other than the strength of the Emperor's Children.

"Brother, I come to you for guidance," Fulgrim quietly spoke. "Must my words be heard by one who is not a Primarch?"

Lorgar turned his head a moment and with a slight motion indicated that Kor Phaeron should leave.

"My lord..." The First Captain started to speak but was cut off abruptly by his Primarch.

"What is said between my brothers and I stays between us. Kor, please leave."

Kor Phaeron was not happy about it, but he reminded himself that he was oath bound to his lord, and with a curt bow he left the Primarch's private sanctum. He paused outside the door and glared back at it for a moment, as if that alone would give him insight into what was going on behind it.

"Something wrong, my lord?" The last word was heavily sarcastic.

He turned, the scowl on his face becoming more intense, as Bal Sangos, captain of the Sixth Company and one of the Primarch's inner circle, came to a halt before him. Kor Phaeron despised the man before him, whose good looks were enhanced by the genes of the Urizen that had mingled with his own. During the Covenant's fall, he had fought alongside Erebus and the others, swayed by the power of the Urizen's words; but Phaeron failed to see what he had done since to deserve his advancement.

The feeling was utterly mutual. Bal Sangos saw Kor Phaeron as a bitter old man who would not let go of the power he had held before the coming of the Emperor; often, the tall and brooding lord of the Sixth had wondered what tricks Kor Phaeron had used to not only become augmented above normal humans, but to become First Captain, a place that should by all rights have gone to an Astarte.

Kor Phaeron swallowed his anger. "I do not trust Fulgrim's motives," he murmured darkly, his rough voice grating like a permanent growl.

The Captain of the Sixth Company folded his massive arms across his chest. "It has nothing to do with you why Lord Fulgrim is here, First Captain." He sneered. "Whether you trust him or not, he is a Primarch, and his words with our father are not for your ears."

Kor Phaeron clenched his gauntleted hands together; the lack of respect from this man was insufferable.

"I have no wish to listen to what you believe, brother; I am the Urizen's guidance on all matters, and you will do well to remember that! I steered him to this moment - not you, not even Erebus, and certainly not Fulgrim!"

Bal Sangos leaned forward, close to Kor Phaeron's ear. "You are nothing but a genetically enhanced human who _thinks_ he is at the center of the world of the prophet of Colchis. The day the Emperor reclaimed his lost son is the day you lost any power over him, Kor Phaeron. I have to accept you as First Captain, but I do not have to listen to your drivel; you are like a spoilt child who has had his toy taken from him."

"Careful what you say to me, captain!"

"Is that a threat?" Bal Sangos smirked a little. "There will come a time, First Captain, that your power will fade; the Emperor, beloved by all, has changed in ways that those Legions not in his inner circle do not yet understand, and his word is going to be the only one Lorgar will listen to."

Bal Sangos kept the smirk across his handsome features as he inclined his head a little and walked away. Kor Phaeron snarled under his breath and stormed off. He had lost this private battle of words. He could not afford to lose many more public ones.

* * *

><p>Fulgrim ran a hand down his face, and Lorgar let him compose himself before speaking. He had listened as Fulgrim had told him what had happened on Racas. His fury was incandescent, and he was struggling visibly to not lose his grasp on it once more.<p>

"Fulgrim, brother," Lorgar got up and poured two goblets of wine, handing one to Fulgrim who noticed the Chemos label on it, "you know humans often think that they are aiding us when in fact they are hindering us. You are not to blame for the Chemos Third Intelligence's actions."

"My Lord Commanders know better, Lorgar." Fulgrim set his goblet down. "How am I to show our father that my Legion is behind him in this endeavour of his if my Lord Commanders start acting likes initiates?"

Lorgar sat back down and clasped his hands into a steeple; and in the light of his room Fulgrim realised how like their father he was right now. The same dark eyes and hair, the difference being that his face was always covered in gold paint. His eyes were lined in dark kohl, and it gave him a look of the ancient Nova-Pharos. But whilst most believed that, as Sanguinius was the most noble, Magnus was the wisest of the Primarchs, Lorgar had his own wisdom, a lot of which he had indeed learned from Magnus, his closest brother.

"Perhaps, brother; when it comes to loyalties within our sons, at a time like this, we may need to make the hardest choices. You dealt with the Lord Commander, I assume?"

"Yes," Fulgrim nodded, "and I dealt with the Chemos Intelligence Corps across the fleet. They could have cost us much. Lucius had a rapport with that world, and they would have been a useful addition to the Imperium after the revelation of the new truth; and if the Alpha Legion had found us, matters would have been even worse."

Lorgar nodded in agreement; in a way, Sanguinius and Alpharius, rather than Fulgrim, being the ones to war on Racas had solved some problems. But not all of them; and that was what concerned Lorgar.

"Brother, what will you do if Sanguinius or Alpharius come to you demanding answers?"

Fulgrim shrugged. "I will deal with it."

"It is said that one can never tell a lie to Sanguinius, that he would smell a lie a mile off."

Fulgrim shifted forward in his seat. "If that day comes, and I am sure it will in time, I will deal with it. It is like Ancient Rylanor: none can lie to him, and I would not stoop so low."

Lorgar rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger. "I will not lie to you: Father was not happy about what had occurred. However, as Magnus once told him, sometimes even we Primarchs are not the ones to make the decisions, and he does not blame you. Still - Father has said there will come a time, when all is set in motion, that those who refuse to follow his path will be cast aside. Would you be able to do that, Fulgrim? Even if fate showed Eidolon, Vespasian, Kaesoron, Demeter and Vairosean to be wanting?"

Fulgrim arched an eyebrow and picked his wine goblet up once more. He sipped from it, savouring the flavour and vintage from his effective home world, and then met Lorgar's intense gaze. "Let me ask you this," he quietly retorted, "if it were Kor Phaeron, Erebus, Bal Sangos, and Argel Tal, would you?"

"If it was in detriment to Father's ascension, in a heartbeat," Lorgar replied without hesitation; and that scared Fulgrim a little.

That was not a view he was comfortable with, but it reminded him to look at Lorgar in a different way. No longer the weak theologist that some of his other brothers saw him as, but a warrior who would do whatever was necessary to ensure their father's place in the universe. It was almost a shame to continue the deception; but this was not going to be done overnight, and the Word Bearers' enlightenment of the worlds they had conquered paved the way for just that.

"What would you advise?" Fulgrim asked.

"Use the warrior lodge; that will give you an idea of who you can trust and who you will have to dispose of."

That sounded such a hard word to use, but it was the honest way to put it. He would have to start watching over his sons, and if they refused to accept his orders even once, their fates would be sealed. To the master of perfection, there was nothing he would not do ensure his father's view of the future. Even if it meant that those of his sons who would not follow him and his beloved father into the history of the universe were fated to see no more dawns, not as demigods, not as any living being.

The Imperium was embracing its destiny; but disloyalty still had to be punished, now more than ever. Fulgrim closed his eyes, dreading the fate his Legion could yet meet.

In the darkness, he saw blue fire.


	10. Chapter Ten

A/N: Not all canon traitors, nor all canon loyalists, will be either renegades or Imperials.

* * *

><p>The huge promenades and esplanades of the Imperial Palace were their usual hive of activity. People were coming and going, many of them secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of the almighty Emperor of Mankind. Some people walked the continent-spanning palace for most of their lives without catching so much a glimpse of the great lord of the Imperium; but his presence was still keenly felt.<p>

Along the walls of the Palace itself, his guards stood sentinel, watching for any danger to their lord and master, as they always had and (one would think) always would. Unlike the Astartes, these sentinels were conditioned for one thing and one thing alone: to guard the Emperor against any and all threats. They were the Dread Guardians, the Emperor's Companions, the Adeptus Custodes; they were the ones responsible for ensuring the safety of their master of mankind, by any means necessary. One such Custode was on watch over the mountains that had once been the roof of the world.

Unlike the other Custodes, he did not share the view that the current events were the will of the Emperor to whom he had sworn his oaths. Husor had been a Custode for as long as he could remember, since before the Unification Wars. In those days, it had been clear: there were no gods, there were no deities, just the deeds that man himself could do: him, and him alone, with no other guiding power. This is what he had preached, that he would himself be obsolete in time; and now, now he (if it was indeed the same person in mind as well as in body) was turning his back on everything he had taught his sons, their sons, and the people of the growing Imperium.

Rogal Dorn had snuffed out a world for holding an artifact that Lorgar Aurelian and the Emperor wanted. There was discord among the Primarchs: Magnus and Mortarion, Horus and Alpharius, the Lion and Perturabo, and now Sanguinius and Fulgrim. This was not how it was meant to be. He kept his gaze front and centre, unwavering in his duty, but he did not fail to notice the Imperial Fists, all dressed in black and white, moving amongst the thousands of people below.

That had been news to him: Lorgar and Dorn had been in conference for days and an offshoot of the Fists had emerged, calling themselves the Black Templars and led by Sigismund. If there was ever a group of fanatical religious zealots, they were it. He had thought the sons of Colchis were fanatical, but for the last few days the Black Templars had been making them fade into the background, spreading their word across Terra. Husor did not like this one little bit, and he had sent word through a coded vox, carried as a piggyback message to Horus Lupercal. Perhaps Horus already knew, but the message was worded so that no harm would be done if that was indeed the case.

The message, however, had never been sent; he had recently learned that some of his brother Custodes had discovered the encrypted message, although he suspected that they had been prepared for precisely this occurrence.

"Husor."

He turned and, seeing who was standing behind him, he knew that he was not long for this world. Still, he was a Custode, and he dutifully moved to one knee in the presence of the master of mankind.

"My lord." He bowed his head.

"You know why I have come." It was not a question; there was very little that escaped the master's sight, natural or otherwise. Husor nodded; it would do no good to lie and, besides, he did not lie to even a possible Emperor. He was a Custodes and he would die with honour, not pleading for his life like some terrified mortal soldier.

The Emperor beckoned him to stand and walk with him. He was alone and that surprised Husor; normally Valdor was with him wherever he went. The Custode fell into step with his master.

"Why, Husor, you who have 573 names to honour your victories in my name - why have you chosen to betray me like this?"

"I do not agree with what you are doing, lord," Husor explained. "I do not want to believe in a god or gods; that is, as you preached before, not the way for man. Is that not what you said to that old priest before we burnt his church to the ground?"

The Emperor chuckled a little and leaned on the parapet of one of his mighty home's sections. He had to admit that Husor was one of his best, after Valdor and Amon. Husor Constanzos was the name he was known by; and when he sparred in the training halls he would often spar with Valdor. There were none, with Amon and Valdor being the exceptions, that were better with the Gladius or the Guardian Spear.

"I cannot allow Horus or the others to know what I am planning until I am ready for them to know, Husor."

"My duty is to you first, my emperor, but I will not walk a road that can only lead to darkness. These beings are scared of you, so they have convinced you that to be their equal you must become one of them... you are acting as if possessed! And I am not sure it _is_ truly you!"

The Emperor turned, and his face lost its calm, fatherly expression that it had had before. He had ensured that the Custodes had their own minds, that they were more individualistic by far than the Astartes; but this was not at all what he had meant for it to end in.

"I am protecting the Imperium that I have created with my bare hands and the skills of my sons and grandsons!" He stood, seething, any semblance of divine patience lost. "Yes, I _am_ the Emperor of Mankind, as you can see with your own eyes; so how do you dare to question me?!"

Husor did not even flinch from his master's wrath, for he already knew how this would end; instead, calmly and clearly, he said, "Once upon a time, my lord, you welcomed me questioning you. Now you allow none to question you, and instead you allow Dorn to create a second group of fanatics, as if we do not have enough with Lorgar Aurelian and his sons."

"Do not make me kill you, Husor," the Emperor quietly spoke, his voice hiding any anger he was feeling right now.

"That is what you are here to do, is it not? I tried to warn Horus Lupercal, and you know that, and he does not; otherwise you would not be here. So if you are going to kill me, do so, because I no longer wish to be part of this new world that you are creating. I have no wish to see Terra enslaved to the laughter of thirsting gods and the delusions of a man who retreats from everything he once believed in. You said yourself that religion was the bane of man's existence, when you were pure; your grandsons brought worlds into illumination, only for the deaths of their brothers to be rendered meaningless."

The Emperor moved towards him and removed Husor's helmet to reveal a dark complexion; a native of the Afrycas, he had intense blue eyes. He would not be moved from his convictions.

"I am sorry you feel the need to question my designs, my son; but the fact that you have held onto your beliefs makes you the strongest of them all. Your like will never be known again."

Husor felt a pain the likes of which he had never known before; the mental guards he had to ward off psychic attacks began to crumble away, and then were torn off. He slipped to his knees, blood falling from his eyes, nose and ears as vessels burst in sickening synchronization.

He raised his head to look his former master in the eyes. "You will be denied; you will not put this galaxy into the hands of beings that know only murder, portents, disease and hedonism."

The Emperor, however, was unmoved, and as Husor's life blood fell through every pore in his body, the only thing the dying Custode could do was laugh. He was leaving this world, and leaving what it would become behind.

"But you are utterly wrong in one thing at least," he barely heard the Emperor say. "I was never pure. Only necessary."

No, Husor had no desire to fight this war, no interest in following a man that was now intent on becoming that which he once despised.

His honour was intact.

* * *

><p>The Stormbird came into the belly of the Vengeful Spirit and came to a smooth stop. Loken and Little Horus looked at the markings on the side of the craft and, like all the legions that were not the one now entering the Thousand Sons flagship, grew wary.<p>

Horus had sent a welcome request to the Thousand Sons when the Photep had come screaming from the Warp like mythical monsters were on its heels. He had charged Loken and Aximand with being the honour guard and welcoming committee, as he had to deal with a troubling message from Perturabo.

He had not, however, told them who was about to board their vessel.

First down the ramp, in their red and silver-edged armour, were Ahriman and Amon, followed by a small retinue of the Sekhmet, but even that was not all. Little Horus was about to greet his cousins when a presence filled the hangar bay, and every worker there there moved to their knees.

Down the ramp came the Crimson King himself; his skin being a red hue, with a long flowing dark red mane, certainly gave credence to his name. He was also known by the less flattering name of Cyclops, but that was due to his one eye, which seemed to change colour depending on his mood. At the moment, from what Little Horus could tell as he lowered himself to one knee beside the already kneeling Loken, it was a sad-looking blue.

The Primarch of the Thousand Sons stood before the two Mournival Captains and bid them rise. Aximand had met the Crimson King before; this was Loken's first time. He not only sensed the natural power that infused a Primarch, but the full mental control this oversoul had over his psyker powers. Whilst there were those in other Legions that derided the Thousand Sons' father for his mastery over the powers of the Warp, the majority agreed that he was nevertheless the wisest of them all.

Whether or not Magnus indeed had any more wisdom that would be expected from his two centuries, some of his brothers found his council quite refreshing. The two Luna Wolves got to their feet and moved to either side of the Primarch as they walked, with him, to Horus's private strategium. Magnus said nothing and let the two captains lead him to his brother; but Ahriman and Amon did not like what was going through their father's mind. He had barely rested since he had demanded that the Photep make full haste for the Vengeful Spirit.

He had been pacing in his private chambers, and reading the runes and the tarot, though each time they had come out the same. His dreams had spoken true. His father had summoned him to Terra, but he had ignored the call. There was something wrong here - _very_ wrong - and he had to let Horus know, so he had sent a message via Astropaths, not daring to do it himself lest he kill the Astropathic Choir of the Vengeful Spirit with the intensity of his request.

Loken had heard many tales regarding the Crimson King, but none of them had come close to his aura of intellect and majesty. Even the remembrancers that were assigned to the Thousand Sons and their fleet could not truly convey the true spirit of Prospero's master.

They entered the Warmaster's strategium and bowed their heads; the Thousand Sons and their father bowed deeply. Horus, as ever, told them honour was done and moved towards Magnus.

Horus was not as close to Magnus as Lorgar and Jaghatai were, and although he understood that Magnus was a fountain of power and knowledge, he was well-aware that his brother was probably teetering on the edge of darkness; a lesser figure would have slipped over many decades ago. Nevertheless, he brought Magnus into a hug and then stepped back. Loken and Little Horus joined Ahriman and Amon, and since the Sekhmet had remained with the Stormbird, the two Primarchs were left to their discussion.

* * *

><p>Horus listened as Magnus told him what had occurred to the world of Venus IX and what he had seen in the Warp. Had it been anyone else telling him this, Horus might have put it down to hysteria; but there was nothing hysterical about Magnus, to whom hysteria was an emotion as alien as to any of the Primarchs.<p>

Still.

"That's impossible, Magnus!" he roared. "The Emperor would never strive to become a god, nor successfully become a monster!"

"You believe he is peacefully working on his secret project on Terra, uncaring about the Crusade?"

Horus was about to dismiss it, and then Perturabo's report came to mind, and then Alpharius and Sanguinius' observations on Racas, and then, suddenly, the mess on Sixty-Three Nineteen. There was a dark undercurrent to the Crusade, a systematic defiance of his authority; and neither Fulgrim nor the Lion would ever disobey him like this for anyone but the Emperor, and of Perturabo's honesty at least he could be absolutely sure. He had been appointed Warmaster; had it all been a lie?

Horus perched on the edge of his desk and rubbed his chin. "I would have dismissed this, you know, but Sanguinius and Perturabo have heard reports... the Emperor is lying to me, at least." And then another memory came to him, a highly dubious vox-astropathic message supposedly from a Custodes claiming the Emperor _was_ embracing religion. It was untrustworthy, and unbelievable, and it could all still be a conspiracy by Alpharius, Magnus, and Perturabo; but they had no reason to claim something so easily falsifiable.

"Horus, brother of brothers," Magnus began, "I know none of us is as close to our father as you are; but our father has changed. I do not lie to you."

"Even if you do not," Horus answered, "what choice do we have? We are his sons, his generals; we must be loyal above all." And the Emperor could well have seen a good reason to turn to faith - and evil - and mankind's unity was most crucial, anyhow. Even if they all had to become monsters.

"No," Magnus said, "we are more than that. _You_, of all people, are more than that. We are not his pets, to follow without question, no matter what. The Emperor has betrayed us all, and more importantly, he has betrayed the galaxy and good. We can be more." Pride swelled within Horus, because Magnus was right. They could all be more, and they _would_ do what was right, even if it involved treachery. Justice before honour.

He still needed to confirm this was no simple lie. Horus stood up and rested a hand on Magnus's shoulder. "Perturabo, Sanguinius and - unfortunately - Alpharius are on the way here; we will then head planetside to Jarrod and discuss this situation. I might need your gifts to protect us from scrying eyes."

Magnus nodded. "I hope I am wrong, brother."

In theory, Horus supposed this should have reminded him of the possibility of conspiracy, but he was still basking in the afterglow of Magnus' earlier words. "So do I, brother… now come, relax; let your sons enjoy the hospitality of the Mournival, and let us talk of other things for the moment."

Loken took that as the cue to leave his post at the doors. But he, like his brother and cousins, had heard enough to know that there was something foetid in the air, moreso because, just after they had left the strategium's entrance, a closed vox message came from the Warmaster to Loken: he was to take the 10th Company, along with Abaddon and the 1st Company, and head to Venus IX.

Their mission was to discover what the hell had happened there; and, as a concession to his brother, they were to be accompanied by the 1st Company of the Thousand Sons. Loken met up with Abaddon soon after, the brothers swore their oaths of moments, and they departed for the Photep. As guests of Ahriman, the Luna Wolves were going to see a world's fate.

And, perhaps, understand a galaxy's.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Corporal Kerman Murat rubbed the back of his neck and, once again, cursed his decision to put himself on watch in the most inhospitable part of the patrol route. There were insects around here that were the size of a man's finger and, although not poisonous, could give a nasty bite.

For ten years now, ever since the Night Lords had brought the world into compliance, he and his regiment, the Jaran 31st infantry, had been stationed here to ensure the loyalty of the populace. Not that there was much of a populace left, on a planetary scale. The citizens of Morsai had been smashed into compliance and had taken the surrender terms that the lord of the night had offered them.

Which were no terms, really. The Night Lords had slaughtered over five million people in the invasion. Then, before the General's eyes, they had executed not only the ruling elite, but their families. Murat shivered as he recalled the General's face when he had returned from that meeting, to tell them that they were to remain here and that he was now the governor in the name of the master of mankind.

He had been nicknamed Iron Horse by his men, an affectionate name that had followed him since the Night Lords had taken the world of Gargas Nine from the Orks. Unlike some command officers of other units of the Imperial Army, he had led by example and would never send a soldier to do something that he would not do himself. That much, at least, was still true, and Murat supposed it had infected him too, or else he would've chosen a better location to patrol.

But much else about the Iron Horse had changed that day.

The brutality of the Night Lords was well known. Having come from the night world of Nostramo Quintus, and bound by the harsh realities of that world, the Astartes of the VIII legion were violent and lived by fear. There was no question about that; they seemed to live on the emotion, feeding off it like some drug. The Iron Horse had understood that, when the Astartes warred, there was no holding back, that it was more brutal and more bloody than even the Army's wars.

But this had shocked even him. A few days later, Murat's Sergeant had relayed the details of what had occurred that evening.

The First Captain Sevatar had rounded up the families of the senate house, husbands, wives and children, and - before their loved ones' eyes - he had executed each and every one of them. The children, mercifully, were quick: even the Night Lords were not infinitely debased. Still, it was the cries of the children and the mothers that had hit Iron Horse. He had tried to reason with the Primarch, saying that this was a mistake and that they would hate the Imperium for all eternity. The tombstone-faced Konrad Curze did not listen and, when he turned his dark eyes onto Iron Horse, the General bowed his head and backed down. No one knew what the old man had seen in those eyes, but it had stayed with him.

When the Primarch himself slaughtered the adults, it was bloodier, and he carved those that had survived open, hanging them up high for the carrion of this world to feed off.

"They will learn that to serve the Imperium also means to fear its justice, Iron Horse," Curze had said to him. "You will remain with your regiment, to teach that lesson to those that think they can avenge this day."

Normally, the old man would have balked at the thought of not being on any more battlefields, but somehow this single event had been enough to destroy his taste for war. He had agreed.

Murat rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. Four hours until dawn, and four hours until he could go see Private Latisha. There were some perks to being stationed here, and for the first time in his thirty-five years he was actually thinking of settling down. Things had changed drastically; the first five years had been hard, getting the populace to comply nearly impossible. For a few weeks after Iron Horse took over, he had left the bodies of the dead as a reminder of what the Primarch and his sons could do.

To leave them up until revolts ceased had been the only orders Curze had left, before leaving the world to continue his crusade. Eventually, Governor Iron Horse had them taken down and returned to their families.

He had done his duty; and yet Iron Horse had changed from the knowledge that the Emperor sanctioned these actions. He could barely believe that the Night Lords were allowed to commit such acts and suffer no repercussions. Eventually, he had come to the way of thinking that the Astartes were nothing more than murderers who committed slaughter in the Emperor's name. He had concluded that worlds that did not rapidly come into compliance were murdered completely, and felt sickened by everything he had done during the Crusade.

He had ordered his men to attend the discussions of the locals, to assimilate themselves into the population and become a part of it. He encouraged relationships, but it had not been easy, for the populace had not forgotten what had happened and the Five Million. Things had gotten especially bad when the tax collectors sent word on what the tithe was to be from this world.

Iron Horse had raged about that for days and had told the tax officer, a narrow-faced man by the name of Tarquinii Jarod, that this was unacceptable: it was going to take another five years to get the production plants moving again and a decade before they could get the quota moving. But the world of Mortai was rich in minerals, and the moneymaking wheels of the Imperium were eager to get going. Jarod had been indifferent to the problems of remoulding a world after compliance, and concerned only with his duty to the Emperor of Mankind to ensure that this happened.

Iron Horse had been so incensed, about everything, that he had taken his las-pistol and shot the man through the head before the stunned retinue; then, he turned it on them, and when their bloody bodies had made enough of a mess on his floor, he ordered that they be taken away. Then, turning, he tore the Aquila that sat on his back wall down.

The downtrodden populace suddenly became more animated, and ever since then things had been easier for the garrison; but Murat was sure that news of their turning from the Imperium would, ultimately, spread and have its consequences. Although he hated this watch, he was on alert.

He was ready to defend his home; but from what, he was not sure yet. Whatever the Emperor eventually decided, they would know about it.

* * *

><p>The Eye of Nostramo translated into the Mortai system. As the flexes of the Immaterium came off its sleek and dangerous body, it was followed by several other vessels.<p>

The bridge of the great battle barge hummed with activity and, like most of the Night Lords vessels, was darkened to such a level that it might as well have been eternal night here. The bridge was dominated by the presence of the being who had taken over the command throne. His face was tombstone granite, his eyes black and soulless; but they were fixed on the planet below the view screen with a mix of anger and a little admiration.

When word had reached him that the planet had gone from the Imperium's light, his father had charged him with punishment. It had been a tasking that he had relished, as he had felt slighted by a once-trusted mortal who had chosen to turn his back on the Emperor and, in effect, on him.

"What do you suppose, my lord, could have caused Iron Horse to act like this?" his Equerry Shand asked him.

Curze sat on his throne and steeped his pale hands to his chin. "He's probably still living with what I did here, to those mortals, before he took over." The Primarch's voice sounded like he had swallowed razor blades: grating and always teetering on the edge of violence.

"Even so, my lord, Iron Horse had been a loyal warrior."

"It matters not, Shand; we brought this world into my father's light, and we shall deal with it. Ready the drop pods; as soon as darkness falls, we will make planetfall."

"No terms for surrender, my lord?"

Curze turned his dark gaze on his Equerry, and the smile that crossed his thin, bloodless lips made even the Astarte shiver. "No; we will wipe the people of this world from the face of the universe. They will be a lesson to that any other world we have brought into compliance, and any such world will suffer the same fate if they step out of line."

Shand bowed and went to carry out his father's orders, and Curze went back to glaring at the view screen. The Emperor had finally seen the necessity of justice, which Curze had understood long ago. And if the Emperor had sanctioned extreme prejudice, Curze would carry it out.

Iron Horse, despite earlier appearances, had not been able to handle the piercing darkness of justice, the piercing truth of Night. He had only been able to follow the path of the past so far.

Curze would _never_ stop walking that path, no matter the cost.

"Memory is vengeance," he said. "Vengeance is justice. And justice is everything."


	12. Chapter Twelve

The communications tower went from day-shift to night-shift lighting. Corinda Kelson stretched in her chair and read through the reports of the day watch officer; nothing to report, at most the odd communiqué from one of the other cities, someone requesting audiences with the governor.

Ever since he had broken from the cruel taxation of the Imperium she and others had fought and fallen for, he had become quite a celebrity. She had been the communication officer directly under old Iron Horse. The Jaran 31st had lived for the Emperor; she clearly remembered the days when its soldiers, on different fields of battle, fought in the name of the Emperor and the growing Imperium.

They had no idea what would happen; the greed of the tax offices was more than that. It was the greed of the Imperium's machines. She rubbed her head a little as the headache started. So she sipped her caffeine and closed her eyes a little; station nine-seven, the Astropathic station, had gone quiet, and although that was not a disaster it wasn't good. The master of the choir was unreachable too.

"Mistress, station eight-sixteen has gone off line," a young Mortai woman by the name of Canila spoke up.

She cursed her luck and ordered a sweep of the system, particularly to scan for the stellar storm that would so affect the auspex's.

It wasn't a stellar storm, but one by one, the other stations went off line. Corinda ordered a scan for any vessels, trying to think what could be taking out her other stations so cleanly. She got her answer.

"People of Mortai."

She felt the colour drain from her face as the voice came over the station communications. She had not heard that growling voice for years, and now she swallowed. The people around her - well, those that had been part of the old regiment began to shake in their seats at the voice, for it brought their ultimate doom. The natives of the world that worked here, meanwhile, saw once again the horrors inflicted upon the former ruling elite and their families, as well as the countless dead from the invasion. That is what his voice was designed to do: to return everyone that had witnessed his justice to that state of fear.

"For crimes against the Emperor of Mankind and his rightful agents," - the voice paused, and as he said the last words, Corinda finally saw the vessel come out of the shadow of the moon and aim its guns directly at her and her staff -

"We have come for you!"

There were sparks of fire, and the communications tower went up in flames. With that, the Primarch moved to his drop pod, and descended to the planet below with his sons.

* * *

><p>Corporal Murat sat on the porch of the home he shared with his partner Latisha, a glass of the native spirit Ungas in his hand. Some of his friends had compared it to Skoch, but it was far more potent than that, and if you weren't careful you would get so hungover you could be lost in the feeling for days.<p>

And that could get you in serious trouble with the company Sergeant Major the next day.

Latisha rested her arms around his knees and looked up at the night sky. She smiled at the lights that trailed through the night sky; they were beautiful, and she called her love's attention to them.

He glanced up where she was pointing. "The Meteor storm is spectacular tonight," she smiled. "Good luck for us."

He watched and followed the trail; they were not meteors. Meteors burnt up in the atmosphere, unless they were big enough to cause problems of their own. He moved her arms and, getting up, ran into the home they shared.

He came back with his binoculars and peered into the trails. He swore violently and loudly, and grabbed Latisha.

"We have to leave _now_," he told her.

"Why? Kerman, what is going on?" she demanded, shaking his arm off her.

"If we do not leave now, then we are dead!" He pointed to the lights. "These are not meteors, they are drop pods. Drop pods carry Astartes, these Astartes will be the Night Lords, now do you really need me to explain what will happen if they catch us here?"

The scowl left the woman's face as memories rose in her mind, memories of what had happened to her people when those monsters had conquered her world. She grabbed her rifle and walked back into the house.

"Latisha, where are you going?" Murat demanded.

"To fight for my home," she called over her shoulder.

He would have stopped her, but he could see the determination in her face. He nodded; it would do no good running anyway, and the Night Lords would find them all. If the Astarte ground warriors did not, then the Raptors certainly would, and he really did not want to be brought before Lord Curze.

"Okay then," he sighed and joined her side, "we all have to die sometimes."

* * *

><p>The moment those words from the depths of man's worst nightmare were broadcast planetwide, panic broke out on the streets of the capital city. The Jaran 31st had trouble keeping order as homes were looted and places of business were ransacked.<p>

The people of this world had already been on the receiving end of Night Lord Justice, and it was not something they wanted to repeat.

Iron Horse put his cap on and turned to his second-in-command, Major Porlenski, then saluted him. "They will destroy this world; but you know that, don't you, Major?"

"I doubt they will do that, sir," the major corrected, "this world is rich in minerals; they will, however, destroy all who live here and leave the planet to the Mechanicum." Perhaps the Mechanicum would be able to fulfill that accursed tithe, but the governor doubted it.

Iron Horse nodded sadly. "That is the way of the world now, Major; if they are lucky, the Nostraman bastards might take them into indentured service."

"I doubt that, sir. Lord Curze does not believe in second chances." The major saw no reason to cottonball the old man; he was well aware of their fate, and it was not going to be slavery. "You know what he will do to us."

Iron Horse nodded. He did not need to be told twice, or for that matter once, to know what would happen to him and his men and women. He looked around his office one last time. "The Astropathic Choir?"

"All dead, sir, but your message was sent before they went silent."

"Won't do much good; even if somehow he is what they say he is, even if by some miracle he feels sympathy for us, by the time the Ultimate Warrior and his sons get here we will be but a footnote in history, as victims of the Master of Fear. Come, old friend; let's make sure we at least take some of those bastards with us."

The major held his hand out and Iron Horse grasped it. "It has been an honour to serve with you."

"The honour is mine, Major… let's go and make the Jaran 31st's last stand memorable."

* * *

><p>The outlying towns fell in rapid and bloody succession. The Raptors screamed down from the skies, their bolters firing as they came cutting through fleeing bodies, which exploded, sending blood and gore onto the once-pristine streets.<p>

Captain Vesos of the Third Raptor Company roared as he followed a group of townsfolk down a narrow street.

"This is what happens to traitors!"

His voice came out more like a screech; he did that intentionally, to ensure the fear ran high in them. He was successful, because fear was all they felt. They had seen what these midnight-clad monsters were doing to the people of their town, and they wanted to escape.

"Everyone move!"

They moved as Corporal Murat and his squad raised their rifles and fired at the pursing Raptor. The bullets dented off the blessed armour, but it gave Vesos something to smile about: at last, there was prey worthy of his time.

They may only have been mortal, but they had the balls to fight. To honour their misplaced bravery, he would make their deaths quick. It was the least he could do.

As he came at the leader, he recalled the corporal's face; it was Murat, who had for a time been assigned to his own mortal Imperial Army attachment. The corporal smiled thinly and raised his rocket launcher.

But it was a little too late, and before he could depress the trigger he was rammed through the side with a pair of taloned gauntlets. Blood came in an arc from his mouth, covering the visor of the Raptor's face plate. A laugh echoed from the Raptor, sounding like hell's inferno itself. "You are lucky, Corporal; I will give you a death quicker than that of your fabled Iron Horse."

Murat heard his lover's voice cry out as she saw the Astartes pull his arm from Murat's ruined body. Vesos heard the woman's cry and nodded in her direction. "Had you not betrayed Lord Curze, you would have had a happier life."

"You have no idea what you did to my commander," Murat spat, "so send me to hell, Night Lord. I really do not care."

Vesos shook his head and what sounded like disappointment emerged from his vox-grill.

"I really liked you, Corporal." He raised his gauntlet and, with a swift strike, he took the head from the soldier's body.

He lay him down on the ground and rested the head by the side of his legs, a ritual from his ganger days that he had never forgotten, using it as his own signature, so that the other Night Lords would know that it was his kill. Murat was a traitor, hence the head was at the side of his legs and not by the remnants of the neck. But he had fought with honour, and even the moody captain of the 3rd Company Raptors recognised that he had dared to face the embodiment of fear and that meant he deserved. Something.

Vesos moved to ground level and walked through the other soldiers, cutting them down like they were twigs on a dying tree. They would not be afforded the same honour, and he cut them down like the traitors they were.

He was joined by his favoured Sergeant, Kelaz, and pointed at the woman and the other few soldiers and townsfolk that had survived. Their spirits had, it seemed, broken at last, and they stood awaiting a death that would not come.

"Take them to the Eye of Nostramo."

"Are we not to kill them lord?" Kelaz asked.

"Not these ones." He stared intently at Latisha's belly. "We will need new warriors one day, and I like the spirit of her former mate; it is my right, as leader of this group, to choose what I do with them."

Kelaz nodded roughly once and started moving them out; Latisha glared at him and went to strike him, her rifle gone in the melee's confusion, but he caught her arm.

"Is death what you want, woman? Think about the child that grows in you!"

"I will make sure that he grows to hate you!"

Vesos laughed a little. "That is what I am counting on."

* * *

><p>If the people of Mortai thought they had felt the justice of the Night Lords once before, they were very much mistaken.<p>

Those few that were deemed worthy of becoming slaves to the Legion were taken kicking and screaming, whereas the rest were killed in ways that made the compliance battle look like a walk in the park.

Konrad Curze was in no mood for a deliberate pace. He had been dishonoured, and obviously his warnings about what happened to worlds that had not fallen into line had not been heeded. He made sure that the deaths of any Jaran 31st warrior he came across were excruciatingly slow and painful. The population's fear of him had returned, but some of them used it to fight against him, and the Primarch had to grudgingly give them respect for that. To turn one's own fear into the courage to face the master of fear himself was not easy, even for a short while.

He cut down warriors brutally, his sons following him; bolter fire crashed into warm bodies and mashed them to a bloody pulp. Chainswords rose up and down, sending meat flying into the air. Some of the more sadistic members of the legion would run chainswords across bodies, but not deeply enough to kill quickly; there were many soldiers and citizens that staggered around, trying to hold their guts in as they died slowly and painfully.

There were some victories. The anti-aircraft guns boomed into the night sky and brought down three Stormbirds, their exploding death rolls bringing cheers from the gunners. They would not last. The one they called the Axemaster, Captain Krieg Acerbus, and his Eighth Company warriors mounted the walls, climbing them effortlessly. Once on top, the Axemaster raised his bloody axe high into the air and roared in Nostraman.

"For the Night Haunter, for the Emperor, let none of these traitors stand!" And in Gothic, he deepened his voice so that when it came out the vox grill it sounded like a demon. "We have come for you!"

Lasfire bounced harmlessly off the midnight clad warriors; krak grenades generally did nothing but cause them to halt for a moment and then continue walking. Power axes cleaved bodies in two, heads fell in succession, and the commanders of the gunnery crews were given the worst fate. Under the Axemaster's orders, the commanders were strung up and cut down the middle. They then had their ribs torn open and hung like perverse angels. Some mercifully died immediately, from shock force trauma, but some did not, and when the Astartes moved on to continue their father's orders their moans for mercy fell on deaf ears.

* * *

><p>Iron Horse stood on the steps leading to the governor's palace. The remains of his army around him shielded those lucky enough to have escaped the carnage. He took a long swallow of Amasec and, in a stern voice, commended his men and women for their bravery.<p>

There would be no rescue and no fair hearing; he was going to die here, but by the fates, he was going to die like a man.

The Night Lords advanced but did not fire, their bolters raised; but they followed their father. And despite their earlier certainty, seeing the Primarch caused a rumble of trepidation in all his warriors. This was no residual feeling, this was what happened when a mortal came into the presence of a god; and some of his warriors, despite their courage, soiled themselves even as the skull shaped helm stopped before them.

There would be no promises of surrender; that was not how the Night Haunter worked. They had betrayed him, and when he was done here he would leave a dead world for the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Iron Horse took his sword and, alone, went to face the Primarch; his knees trembled, but he forced them to move, and for the moment even the grim-faced master of Nostramo admired the mortals' courage.

"Will you not plead for the lives of your forces?" he rumbled. "I can smell their fear, and their wish to live is pathetically potent."

The General held his head high, and with what even he realized was a significant amount of courage, looked the master of fear in the eyes of his red lensed helm.

"Mortals always fear Astartes," Iron Horse replied with no tremor in his voice, "and they fear Primarchs more than they fear Astartes."

What sounded like a chuckle emerged from the helm and Curze reached up, took it off with a hiss, and handed it to Sevatar.

"The world of Mortai and the citizens of the capital have fought well; but you know that I will not leave you alive. My father was most explicit on those orders. You killed one of his legitimate officers, in order to not pay the tithe due to him."

"The tax man would not listen," Iron Horse replied. "My job is to ensure things roll smoothly, and his demands would have made it impossible."

"I must admit, Iron Horse, I have no love for those grubby little money collectors; but what you have done is punishable in only one way."

"Then do it, Curze of Nostramo," Iron Horse stepped back and raised his sword, "because I am done with the barbarity and butchery of this so called Imperium."

Despite what he had assumed, Iron Horse could have swayed his own survival, or at least that of some among his men; but though his insane courage was a point in his favor, and granted him a quick death, his indifference to the Primarch, his lack of respect, incensed Konrad Curze, who flexed his talons once and - with a move that no one, not even his sons, saw - he drove them through the General. Then, with a backhand, he took the head clean off the shoulders.

The killing of their beloved commander caused the warriors of the Jaran 31st to open fire. It did no good, and at the command of their father, the First Company moved in amongst the soldiers.

Twenty minutes later, the former Imperial Army unit and the surviving citizens were dead, as was everyone else in the capital. The Night Lords departed the surface, and by dawn they were gone.

* * *

><p>The handsome giant stood, shocked at the quantity of bodies littered around. The pyres still burned, and the stench of human flesh was difficult to bear, even to one such as him. A hundred million people had been personally killed by the Night Lords, in (as far as the Primarch understood) a single one of Mortai's long nights.<p>

"My lord… Curze has crossed the line this time." Sergeant Achillion of the First Company did not even bother hiding his horror at the scenes around him.

Knowing the reports that had come in since the Ultramarines had made planetfall some hours ago, Roboute Gulliman could only nod in agreement.

He knew that his isolated and driven brother was seen as the their father's arm of justice, but this was a step too far even for the Lord of the Night. He had sent a communiqué to the Imperial Palace, but it had been met with dismissal; and the Emperor could not be personally reached. This was not in the spirit of the Great Crusade, and this was not what Astartes were created for; this wanton slaughter and destruction was meant to be the work of xenos, not Astartes.

"I will go see Curze for myself," the Primarch seethed. "I will have answers for this."

* * *

><p>The Photep screamed as it translated from the Warp, beginning to slow as it came towards Venus IX. Abaddon stood behind the vox officer, who was, at the moment, trying to hail the star port.<p>

"This is the Photep, requesting permission to anchor." She set her earpiece down and turned in her seat; the shock briefly showed on her face when she realised it was the First Captain of the Luna Wolves behind her, not Master Ingrea.

"Still no word?"

Abaddons voice, as ever, sounded like a bottomless pit, and as she lowered her gaze in deference to the Astarte, she wondered if it was true that Abaddon really was Horus's son in the full sense of the word.

"No, my lord," she replied. "All channels are silent, though they should be hearing us. Would you like me to keep trying, lord?" she asked.

"No… -" he glanced at her name badge - "Commander Axra." He clasped his hands behind his back and cast a worrying eye towards both Loken and Ahriman. As far as Abaddon knew, none of them had been told what Magnus expected them to find here; but they all knew it was nothing good. "Have all Astartes report to their Stormbird."

His expression was granite, but as Venus IX came into view, the reason for it - the devastation that surrounded the dead world - was evident.

"By the great spire," Ahriman whispered.

"Oh Terra," Loken muttered.

The rest of the bridge crew murmured several oaths of their own; some made the sign of the Aquila. Chunks of space debris floated past, caught in the planet's gravity well. They would spin with the once-beautiful world until their enforced orbit degradation caused them to plummet through the atmosphere, to the planet below. Bodies floated in the void, and the three Astarte Lords could only stare in horror at the damage wrought to a loyal Imperial world - they had seen such damage plenty of times on xeno worlds, of course, but the Astartes were not used to being on the defensive. Whoever had attacked had taken out the orbital defences and traders' docks.

"This was done first." Loken shook off his astonishment and got back to business. "They did not want any survivors to tell the tale."

"It could have been the Eldar," Abaddon mused. Certainly, he considered, this was the scale he expected from a first strike of the Eldar against the rising Imperium.

"Or the Orks," Loken offered, "but then the Orks would have taken the ships for their own and used them for something else."

"We won't know the full story until we get planetside."

Loken sighed and turned to the Thousand Sons First Captain, who he was also aware was the Chief Librarian, Commander of the elite Sekhmet, and the leader of the Corvidae. His precognitive powers were well known, and despite his unease at the powers inherent within the Thousand Sons, he was aware that having them on one's side was a powerful advantage.

"Does your Lord know what happened here, or who attacked?"

Ahriman was silent for a long while, and when he replied it sent shivers of cold down both Luna Wolves' spines.

"My father confided in me and me alone on this matter. At the time this world died, he was dreaming, and the people's cries burst into his dreams. He believes that the Imperial Fists did this."

Loken moved his head back, a deep scowl on his face; he could not, and would not, believe that the man who had endorsed him as a member of the Mournival had committed planetary genocide. Rogal Dorn was the Emperor's Champion, the Praetorian of Terra; this accusation against him was not what the Luna Wolves had expected to hear.

Abaddon uttered a growl under his breath. "No disrespect to you, Lord Ahzek," he snarled, "and if you had said Angron or Curze, or even Perturabo, I might have believed it, but Dorn? Perhaps Lord Magnus is confused." At best.

"I had those thoughts as well, cousin, but my father is insistent that it was the sons of Dorn," Ahriman repeated.

"We better get planetside," Loken insisted, and without another word the three captains made their way to their Stormbird, to descend to the planet below.

* * *

><p>If the debris in space gave them cause for concern, then what was left of the world they now stood on sickened them. Even the usually unshakable Abaddon could barely believe what his eyes were telling him.<p>

The Imperial Fists had brought Venus IX into compliance. He remembered his father's face when the news had reached him, and that this was the first world that the Fists had taken without a shot being fired.

So impressed was the Emperor that he named Venus IX not only a world of outstanding beauty, but also a world of recruitment for the Imperial Fists. Abaddon knew that reason and was pleased for them. The Fists did not have a home world per se, like the Wolves, the Rout, or indeed (with the exception of the World Eaters) every other legion. They recruited from Terra or Inwit, or one of several other planets; but that decree had allowed the Fists to recruit from Venus IX when they wanted to. To the best of Abaddon's knowledge, that had occurred thrice over the last two hundred years.

He had read about this world. He knew that the tribes on the far continent, Aphos, were not as well-off as the ones on this continent, Athara, and slightly more savage then their cousins; but the Fists did what they did best, took the best from both cultures, and turned them into Sons of Dorn.

And yet, as he stared around at the devastation before him, he began to believe that those same golden giants, the Praetorians of the Emperor himself had done this. Although he wanted to believe there was a rebellion, or some other cause, nothing he or Loken or indeed Ahriman observed could supported this. Of course, there was no real evidence for anything at all, besides the method of Exterminatus.

The bones of the dead littered the once pristine streets, bleached white - but not by the sun, Loken knew, though it was extremely hot. This was a (moderate-strength) virus bomb's legacy.

And virus bombs were a quintessentially human invention, and specifically given only to the more trustworthy Legions - Luna Wolves, Blood Angels, and Imperial Fists.

"Why?" was all he could think to say before his duty as a captain of the Luna Wolves took over.

He cleared his throat a little and looked around. "Tenth, form up on me," he turned to Abaddon, "we'll check Dorn Gardens. It is where Dorn first set foot on Venus IX, and, I believe, where they held their tournaments for recruitment."

Abaddon nodded and watched his brother walk off. Sometimes he felt a little envious at Loken. Ever since he had become an Astartes, Ezekyle Abaddon had lost touch with whatever humanity he once had; but Loken, Garviel Loken, still had that flame of what he had once been within his breast. That was why, when it came to dealing with the remembrancers, Horus left him to deal with any problems that might arise. It was a job that Loken had proved remarkably efficient at, especially when it came to keeping them away from the Warmaster, though it was also a reason not to envy the Tenth Captain.

Ahriman turned to the First Captain of the Luna Wolves and bowed his head a little more, more in respect for his reputation than his rank.

"With your agreement, cousin, I will take my warriors and look around the ruins of the government building."

Abaddon was about to ask what good that would do when he checked himself. He was talking to a Thousand Son, and not any Thousand Son, but their First Captain, or the equivalent of it anyway.

He never did understand the different branches of the Thousand Sons, even compared to any other Legion that had different names for different companies.

"What are you hoping to find, cousin?" he asked.

"Anything that might give us an idea as to why this happened."

"You mean why the Fists did this?" Abaddon corrected.

"I was – reluctant to mention that again, Ezekyle."

"Ahzek, we may have to face up to the fact that what we do not want to believe has occurred. My only concern would be this: what do I tell the Warmaster if it turns out one of his closest brothers committed planetocide for no apparent reason?"

Ahriman nodded briskly and, with his men, walked towards the shattered buildings. Falkus Kibre joined his Captain and scratched his ear. "Your orders, Ezekyle?"

"Garvi is going to the training grounds, the witch is going to the buildings, so we check out where the barracks were, and the surrounding region."

"The barracks?" The Widowmaker seemed a bit confused.

"The barracks, my brother; I want to know why there are no signs of the Imperial Army that was left here, or the planetary PDF."

* * *

><p>Loken's foot crunched down on a skull, and as he looked down, he could see that it was a skull of a child. He cursed softly under his breath, and then realised what he and his chosen members of Tenth Company were actually walking on.<p>

Since their Captain's elevation to the Mournival some months before, the Tenth were raised in esteem on a par with First, Second and Fifth Companies. They were so tuned to their beloved Captain that, when he stopped dead and saw the sea of bones that lay in a macabre carpet across the floor, they too were stunned by what they witnessed, simultaneously realising the situation.

"By the hand of the ship," Vipus invoked the chant that the Luna Wolves used when they were edgy or needed extra reserves. Normally Loken dismissed it as inappropriate in certain situations. He sensed that it was a sigh of humours and choleric imbalance, and he would react accordingly. But not at the moment. Truth be told, he wished for the hand of the ship himself.

As the Astartes made their way through the ocean of bones, Apothecary Jerus called Loken. He made his way over, wincing as he stepped on more bones and feeling them be crushed underfoot.

"Jerus?" He crouched down beside the Apothecary.

Jerus was Terran-born, from the deserts of Mercia. He was not Cthonian-born, and yet he had the heart of one, which was what made him so popular amongst the Wolves, and not just the Tenth. He spoke as he saw it and saw no need to flower words when the truth was better, no matter how harsh the truth was. He lifted a skull, gently despite his huge hands and the narthicum attached to the wrist.

"Garvi, they were killed by bolter fire." He motioned to the gaping hole in the front and back of the skull. "I believe this unfortunate soul was shot as they tried to escape."

Loken removed his helm and met Jerus eye to eye. "Are you telling me they were executed?"

Jerus lay the skull down and nodded grimly. "Aye, Captain, that is exactly what I am telling you."

Loken ran his hand through his hair and scratched the top of his head. He did not know what to say: this was unprecedented, at least for the Fists it was. They could be as terrible as any other Astartes, but this… well, he would have expected this from the World Eaters or the Night Lords, but not the Imperial Fists. Then again, it hadn't necessarily been the Fists, in this specific place.

"Captain. Do we continue?"

He didn't look at Vipus, but nodded. "The Warmaster will need a complete assessment." Loken got to his feet and they all followed him.

But somehow, his treads became a little heavier as he tried to frame the words he would use to tell his father that one of his closest brothers had ordered planetocide.

* * *

><p>Ahriman, like Loken on the other side of the valley, was also treading on bones as he and his chosen Sekhmet made their way through the remains of the government building. Judging by the way the skeletons lay, they had been waiting for someone.<p>

Honour guard, Ahriman dryly thought, and continued making his way through the once-elaborate hall, towards what had been the records department. Nothing of what he saw suggested anything like rebellion. If anything, they had been waiting for the Primarch to descend. Broken and battered instruments told him that much. If this had been a world in rebellion, then there would be more military debris; and then Dorn and his Fists would have been half-vindicated. Even then, though, Exterminatus was an unthinkable act, and he had found no reason for it.

He had found it hard to believe that such a figure as the Praetorian would have committed such an act; in fact, when his father had told him who he had seen attacking this world, he had hoped to omniscience that he was wrong. That the Great Ocean had shown him something meant that it was a possibility, not a fact. If it had been anyone else - Russ, Angron, Curze - he might have believed it, indeed, if he had said Horus he might have believed it, as the ferocity of the Luna Wolves was well known.

But even Horus had the skills of a master diplomat, and this would have been a last resort for him, as shown by the fact that not only was Garviel Loken shocked to the core, but the famous First Captain was similarly affected. Ahriman and the other First Captains in other Legions were well-known, but there was none more famous then Ezekyle Abaddon. His name brought fear throughout the galaxy, but perhaps the galaxy also had its eternal defenders in the likes of the ferocious First Captain.

He brought his mind back to the job at hand, as he walked through the gaping hole that had been the office wall. He found the battered, steel copy of the report log and picked it up; from what he could tell there were the standard daily reports, and then the report of the arrival of the Phalanx.

So far as he could tell, everything was as it should have been, as Magnus had told him. He read some more, and then stopped, going back to a log entry that he had skimmed over.

'Imperial Fist Scouts seen around the Forbidden Zone, reports in that they have killed anyone who dare oppose them. What is going on? We need clarification that the Imperial Fists are allowed into the very place that our elders forbade anyone from entering.'

He read the time index and sat back. "Tuthor."

"My lord?" His sergeant stepped forward.

"Is there anywhere marked the 'Forbidden Zone' on those planetary maps?"

Tuthor was silent for a long moment and then answered his lord's question. "It is 600 kilometres due north of here, my lord; I have had to archive old maps, as it is not on any modern maps."

"You did good, brother," Ahriman complimented. "I should have remembered that planetary maps would have been updated. Whatever information you find on this society, take it with us. We are here to investigate our father's vision, but let us not confine this world's rich past to an ignoble end."

Aside from the psykery that seemed to govern their world and their gene-code, the Thousand Sons were and always would be natural scholars and historians. As their father had announced, it was one thing being conquerors and bringers of the Imperial Truth, but one should never forget planetary pasts.

He could almost sense the sorrow in this place, and it was not an illusion. His own powers primarily allowed him to see possible futures and outcomes, but they could also pick up the pain and horror in the recent past, which surrounded this building. He sensed the disbelief and the terror that must have flowed through these halls, at the instant when they realised that the Primarch was not coming, and in his place came death. He bowed his head in respect to the ghosts and the souls in this place, and made a silent vow that he and his cousins would avenge them and let them rest in peace.

"Memory is knowledge," Ahriman said, recalling his father's words while struggling to rise through the Enumerations. "Knowledge is light. And light is everything."

* * *

><p>The Justaerin and Abaddon moved through the barracks. Nearly unharmed Tanks and Chimeras sat idle alongside Rhinos and other troop carriers. Besenara, one of the Justaerin, commented that it looked like they were waiting for the call that never came.<p>

Abaddon had to agree: he knew from experience that, whenever a Primarch returned to a world he had conquered, there were full military parades and honours. The fact that none of the great machines of the Imperial Army had not moved out of their stations meant that, if Dorn had indeed been here, something had happened before they could be mobilised for ceremonial duties.

The Widowmaker stopped by the metal warriors and saw the iconography of the Imperial Fists' loving hand painted on the hulls and the turrets. With names like Wrath of Inwit, Ave Praetorian, Hammer of Dorn, and Blade of Terra, it was obvious that the guard that had been left behind here to ensure the law of the Emperor remained was loyal to the Primarch. He quickly recalled the regiment, the 6th Armoured Warriors of Nordfrick. He brought it to Abaddon's attention: a worthy regiment with many battle honours. They had both seen them fight before, and if any humans had some of the same drive as the Astartes, it was these men and women.

"My Lord," Raxial, the sergeant to Kibre's left, spoke up, "Lord Loken has reported that his approach to the arena is full of bones and that his Apothecary has confirmed they were killed by bolter fire. Lord Ahriman has also confirmed that log reports were asking why Imperial Fist Scouts were here."

"Acknowledged," Abaddon curtly replied, and without another word he moved towards the barracks, leaving Falkus to arrange the Justaerin in a wide spread, bolters raised and ready for anything or nothing.

What confused Abaddon the most was that, as he made his way through the barracks, there were no bodies. He had received more word from the lord of the Tenth and a visual on what he and his chosen were seeing. Ahriman had sent a visual of the ruins of the government buildings, too, and he had expected to see something similar here; instead the barracks were deserted. As if their inhabitants had just abandoned their posts.

There would have been no Titans, he knew this for a fact: any of them would have left with the Imperial Fists to continue their part of the Crusade. Other machinery was present. But of the troops, there was no sign.

Lenox and Castile came out the far barracks and saluted Abaddon as he came over. "Report," he ordered, his patience beginning to fray at the edges.

"None of the bunks have been slept in for some time, my lord," Lenox reported, "as far as we can tell. No weapons and no belongings; all that is left is dust."

"By the blades of Valdor, what the hell is going on here?" he seethed. "An entire regiment does not just disappear into thin air!"

He stormed into the commanders' office and saw nothing but empty desks, a globe of the world, and more dust. In frustration he banged his mighty fist on the desk, causing it to crack in two and fall to the floor.

"Someone, give me a tarffing answer!" he roared.

He turned as Brother Agelo of the Tenth appeared in the doorway and moved to one knee.

"My apologies, lord." He waited for Abaddon to acknowledge him and stood straight up. "My lord Loken respectfully asks that you come join him by the arena, where Lord Ahriman also awaits you."

Abaddon took a last look round the deserted office and nodded. "Lead on, Brother Agelo"

Falkus could understand the First Captain's frustration; and of all the Luna Wolves, it was a known fact that once Abaddon started getting frustrated with something, he would look for something - anything - to kill.

He hated mysteries; all the Wolves did. It was not how they liked to operate, and this situation was probably more suited to the Thousand Sons, who were used to this kind of work. It was part of their gene-code to make sense from the incomprehensible, unlike the sons of Cthonia.

He reminded himself to ensure the First Captain's humours stayed in balance: better for them all that they did.

* * *

><p>The Macragge's Honour screamed into the materium like a great carnivore of old Terra. The length of the vessel flexed as it came into real space and began to slow, its prey turning to face it.<p>

On the bridge, the crew went about their business as efficiently as people of Ultramar always did, and the giant of giants above, on the strategic deck, looked down with pride. Each and every man and woman that worked this vessel was a son and daughter of Macragge. No matter what the reputation of this Primarch and his sons, the lord of the Ultramarines was certain his crew, as well as his own sons, would not be found wanting. He moved down onto the main bridge and took centre stage.

He clasped his hands behind his back and raised his head a little higher. His eyes, always calm, focused on the job at hand. Those that had met Roboute Gulliman (that did not fell to their knees, senseless) always spoke of how calm he was. How he was always the driving force behind his sons' achievements.

It was no small feat to rule a star empire, and it took a Primarch like Gulliman, with his sheer force of will and power of command, to rule an empire like Ultramar. How he managed was beyond human understanding, and how his father managed a realm a thousand times larger nearly beyond his own. He had taken the world that had been his adoptive father's; not only did he forge an empire of warriors and workers, all united in one course of loyalty, and lead it to greatness, but he was also lord of the Ultramarines, unarguably the largest of the Legions.

There were those that said his sons were nothing more than mindless drones. The Ultimate Warrior, as he was affectionately known in some circles, allowed a small, dry smile to cross his mouth. Those that said such things had no idea how his sons and his people worked. Least of all, the man that he was about to face.

The screen changed, and to give the bridge crew of Gulliman's vessel credit, not one of them flinched. He would not have blamed them if they did; when one faced the Night Haunter – well, lesser men would tremble. The tomblike features were, as ever, grim and foreboding; the dark eyes were, inasmuch as Guilliman was give to metaphor, those of a shark. They were cold, lifeless and soulless.

Of course there were also those that said, as if such a thing was still relevant in this day and age, that looking into Curze's eyes was like looking into the eyes of the devil himself. With his brothers Angron and Mortarion, the violence was severe but understandable, whereas others like Russ and Horus were violent in a human, emotional way that fused fury and compassion; but there was no pattern to Konrad's violence that he could discern.

"Ah." Curze's voice rasped as he sat forward on his throne. "Roboute, you have come to see me, I wager."

"We will talk, Konrad." He kept his deep voice steady but, knowing what his brother was capable of, could not help but feel a slight shiver flutter down his spine. Astartes knew no fear, but Primarchs were not Astartes; and though he was not afraid right now, he knew from Dorn's example that Curze was capable of inspiring just that reaction, even in one of the greatest among his brothers.

"Will we now?" Curze chuckled, although it was not at all relaxing, more like the laugh of a hunter who toyed with his prey. "And why would I answer your summons?"

"We will talk alone, brother, kin to kin; I will have an answer for the planetocide you and your sons left behind on Mortai."

Curze regarded him coolly and sat back in his seat. "Very well brother, as you wish. We shall meet, kin to kin; but are you sure you want the answers I will give you, Roboute? Whatever you think of me, you know I speak only the truth as I see it."

"This I know already."

"Then I will come aboard. I have not yet had the pleasure of being aboard your vessel, and I ask that you dim the lights."

Guilliman nodded, knowing how sensitive his brother was to the bright lights; before he cut the connection, the master of fear sat forward once more, and said a final sentence.

"Be careful what you wish for, empire builder; you may not like what you learn."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Abaddon joined his brother and cousin, and opened a private channel to his Mournival brother.

+++Why not vox me, why send Agelo? +++

+++Because I did not want you to hear about this over the vox before seeing it.+++

Without another word, Loken led his brother to the top of the rise; and now he understood. He knew now why both Loken and Ahriman were standing apart from their squads, why Loken had not even called him privately. Below him were bones - thousands of skeletons' worth, all in various states of whiteness, they lay like a carpet of death. He said nothing, but his neck muscles throbbed, showing not only his disgust but also his growing anger. He wanted something to kill - that much was obvious. They had all seen similar sights before, of course, atrocities committed by xenos. But it was not xenos who had come to Venus IX.

Ahriman glanced at his Luna Wolf cousin, and - for the briefest of moments - got a flash of a possible future. An image where the Imperium feared Abaddon as the avenging force of the Emperor gone rogue, sweeping a trail of destruction through the galaxy in the name of a being from the Great Ocean.

He shook his head and dispelled the images that had risen in his mind unbidden. He was glad that was only a possible future, and he hoped it would not come. The day a warrior with the skills of Abaddon turned against the Imperium would be a dark day indeed.

"Ahriman spoke of a Forbidden Zone," Loken quietly spoke to his brother, his disgust at what was lain out below them evident in his stance.

"Forbidden Zone?" Abaddon turned his head and stared at the Thousand Son. "What forbidden zone?"

Loken knew that tone: it was a tone filled with hope that there might be a reasonable explanation for what had happened, one that involved the vindication of their cousins in the Imperial Fists and, most of all, the ability to tell their father that one of his closest brothers had not actually gone insane.

"It is an area that the ancient peoples of this world once used to worship their gods," Ahriman explained. "The populace turned against these religions long before the Imperial Fists came here."

"So what happened? Keep walking," Abaddon told both of his fellow captains as they headed off towards the Stormbirds, to fly to the Forbidden Zone.

"Do you recall how, when Lorgar arrived on Colchis, his rise to prominence resulted in a planetwide civil war?" Ahriman asked.

"Yes," Loken replied, "indeed, our father told us the ways of Colchis, more than for any other Primarch, were engrained on his psyche."

"Something similar happened here. The records I found suggested that the religious warriors and their priest masters waged war on the populace, to bring them to heel once more. The war lasted several decades, and eventually they surrendered."

"So fall all religions," Abaddon growled, admiration for the people of this world growing in his breast.

Erebus had once told him what the civil war on Colchis was like and what it had taken the forces of Lorgar to take down the Covenant; but these people had no Primarch to lead them, and yet they had done it themselves. Now he could understand why Loken was so empathic with some mortals. These mortals had risen against the cause of their misery and done what had to be done. Fight.

"Some one hundred years after the civil war, a large number of people went missing, only for their mutilated bodies to be found, several days later, in this area that was once the religious centre. They had wiped out any and all followers of those gods they had once obediently followed, but such was their fear that they abandoned the area and collapsed the ruins."

"And banned anyone from entering it?"

"Yes Garviel, hence the Forbidden Zone," Ahriman nodded. "The reason we are going is the last vox message mentioned Imperial Fist Scouts being in the area."

"Better take a look, then," Abaddon growled, his earlier hope fading. Intervening in religion - just how mad _had_ Dorn become? He remembered the Seventh Primarch as he had been, a stern and piercing man who could not bring himself to lie even to save lives, who always preferred defense to offense not only because of his own strategic strength, but as a matter of principle.

"Memory is but an echo," Abaddon quietly said, "just like fate."

* * *

><p>The two giants stood across from each other in the Ultimate Warrior's private strategium. The lights were dimmed to compensate for his brother's sensitivity to brightness, but the atmosphere was far from amiable.<p>

He had arrived with his First Captain Sevatar and Shang, his Equerry; at their father's request, they remained outside, giving him and his brother some time alone. Guilliman sat down, and after a few moments Curze did the same across from him. Both men remained silent, with eyes locked on each other. Gulliman was not afraid of his brother, and Curze was certainly not afraid of anyone; and it showed on his bloodless lips that seemed, to the Primarch of the Ultramarines, to be a conceited smirk.

"So," Curze spoke, like all the worst nightmares of children rolled into one tone, "I take it you have come from Mortai then?"

"Why, Konrad?" Guilliman asked

"Why Konrad, what?" Curze kept his face poker-straight, but the address had thrown him a little; he was not used to be being called by his first name. Most of his brothers called him Curze or Night Haunter.

"Why did you destroy that world's populace?"

"They had gone against the rule of the Imperium; I acted on our father's orders, and did as he required of me and my sons."

"Not complete planetocide, brother," Gulliman stressed. "It is true, what Rogal says about you: there is no in-between with you, no allowance for mercy."

"As for Dorn," Curze smirked, "he and I have come to an – understanding of late that is... amicable to all concerned."

Gulliman arched a disbelieving eyebrow. He had heard the rumors, had been told that when Curze had attacked Dorn he had almost killed him and that the two Primarchs had raged at each other ever since. He was shocked to hear that the two brothers had come to some peace; shocked, but pleased, as it would make everything a lot easier in the long run. It did not help the morale of the Crusade to have two Primarchs at each other's throats.

"I am glad to hear it," Gulliman spoke quietly.

"But that does not answer the question that is lingering in your mind." Curze's voice dropped to a haunting whisper, a tone that Gulliman had heard too many times when he was in the company of all of his brothers.

It was the voice of a judge that was about to declare judgement on his prisoner; on ancient Macragge, it would have been a black cube in the judge's hand, signifying the sentence of death. And whilst such customs had long since faded into memory, talking to Konrad Curze when he had that tone of voice always reminded the Ultramarines' father of those tales. Anyone's reaction to the Master of Fear, when Curze used that tone, was similar to that of a prisoner who had received a death sentence.

Primarchs, as always, were the exception. Guilliman kept his temper. "I expected the Governor to be killed, and the rest of his government I can understand, but an entire world?"

Curze cocked his head to one side; he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a predator eyeing up his next meal. Guilliman had no doubt he looked murderous himself, too. "What do you suggest would have been the better approach?"

"Re-education," Guilliman simply spoke.

Curze laughed; only it was not a sound of mirth, but rather a dry laugh that rattled the bones, a laugh that would have sent terror up the spine of a lesser man. As stoic and fearless as he was, even Gulliman suppressed a tremor as he heard it. It was simple - he was not used to being treated like prey, even though martially he was equally matched with Curze.

"And what, Empire Builder, would that have created? Only a world that has been taught how to be part of the Imperium, but at whose heart lies a cancer that will burn and, eventually, cause them to rebel again. No, Roboute, mine was the right course of action. The planet will be populated again, and the Mechanicum will be able to extract the minerals for the weapons and machines that we all use.

"You, of all people, should understand the order in it all. The people of Ultramar have a tough and hard-working existence, but they are loyal to the Imperium and their master. As I recall, life on many of the planets is not easy, but they endure.

"I merely ensured that any other world thinking of rebelling against Father's rule thinks again. Sometimes, brother, a hint of what my sons or the sons of Angron can do is not enough to stop the fires. When full knowledge of what happened here gets out, others will learn."

"So you say," Guilliman retorted, knowing full well such tactics would end in a galaxy of tombs; then, he paused at the weight of what his socially inept brother was implying. "You are telling me that the Mechanicum wanted this world for its minerals, and Horus - no, not Horus, _Father_ - just let you do this?"

Curze said nothing, replying with a smirk. He got up, and Guilliman rose with him.

"Konrad!" His voice was sharp, and Curze arched an eyebrow. "Father let you do this? With no threat of repercussions? I cannot believe this!"

"Believe what you want, Guilliman; I am not here to fuel your fantasies, or your paranoia."

"Paranoia? Ha! That's a severe accusation, coming as it does from the master of paranoia." He narrowed his blue eyes and pointed at his brother. "You will not get away with this, Curze."

Curze smirked and walked to the door. "It would appear, brother, that I already have." And with that he walked out; several minutes later, his vessel turned and headed on its way.

On the bridge, Guilliman clenched his fists and looked at the Shipmaster. "Plot me a course to intercept with the Vengeful Spirit; the Warmaster needs to hear this." And he needed to hear Horus' reaction, to understand what was going on here, if the Imperium had indeed gone mad or if it was merely Curze having learned to lie. He thought back to Mortai, the sheer personalized brutality - that had not even been Exterminatus, but a massacre on a planetary scale. The quantity of bodies...

No.

"Memory is irrelevant," Roboute Guilliman said to the stars. "My domain is the future."

* * *

><p>The Forbidden Zone.<p>

Ahriman's explanation to them what the people here had thought of the place did it no justice. Everything around it was dead, blasted by weapons old and new, but that just made the place look more haunted.

Trees stood, twisted in strange shapes; and had they been more human, they might have seen more of the implications. The ground was burnt, though this area had apparently been shielded from the virus bomb, since not everything was burned away; as they walked through the wasteland, they kicked the ash of wars past and present underfoot. It rose in small clouds of grey mist. They carried on walking, making their way towards the inner circle. A message from Kelso of Breakspear had them running over. Near the entrance to an old temple lay not just the bodies of Venusian soldiers, but the bodies of Imperial Fist scouts. Perfect, unquestionable proof that sons of Dorn were involved in this.

Abaddon crouched down with Loken and inspected the scene around him. The way the soldiers lay, it looked as if they were attacked first.

"They got lucky, it was scouts," Abaddon mused. "Tough as our scouts are, they are not yet full Astartes."

Kibre made his way over and joined the Mournival Lords. "I've scouted the area with Rathames. We believe that there was a Venusian patrol permanently stationed here. When they saw the Fists, they would not have attacked; only when they emerged from here did something cause the soldiers to try and stop them."

"Better go inside, then," Ahriman said, "otherwise we might not have the complete answers to give the Warmaster."

Abaddon and Loken got to their feet and, with a look around at the carnage, moved inside the temple.

It was much as they would have expected from an old temple to old faiths: columns rose high into the air, and the remnants of a roof lay scattered all around them. Mosaics stared at them from the shattered floor. Ahriman crouched down and brushed his gauntlet along the floor, carrying on for a little while, then stopped. Loken and Abaddon walked over to stand either side of him and gazed down at the image the Thousand Son First Captain had uncovered.

A being who was neither male nor female was being attended to by a male and a female in various acts of debauchery. Loken shuddered, though he wasn't sure why, and stepped back. He was about to suggest they leave when he was called over by Vipus.

His oldest friend pointed to an alcove. Loken peered in to see nothing but a smashed alter and whatever was on there was gone.

"There was a second force field around this," Vipus explained, "beyond the force field surrounding the zone; moreover, it was hidden from view by the stonework. If what Lord Ahriman said is anything to work by, the people, in rejected the religion and its masters, covered this up so that no one would ever see it again."

"They would not have been able to break the field, so they built a stone coffin to keep whatever was there out of sight," Loken added. "Looks like the scouts found it, before the skirmish."

"Garvi," Vipus lowered his voice, "everything here suggests the people were defending themselves. Scouts or not, they should still have known they'd be no match for semi-Astartes."

Loken looked around himself and nodded; his sergeant was quite correct, and he patted Vipus on the shoulder in thanks before rejoining Abaddon, who was watching Ahriman.

The Lord of the Corvidae had gone looking for an explanation of what god, goddess, or other creature the early Venusians had worshipped. The First Captain of First Captains gripped his bolter tighter and sighed heavily.

+++ I do not like this place, Garvi; it smells of secrets, fanes and old-style demon stories. +++

+++ The truth is plain to see, Ezekyle; the Imperial Fist scouts attacked this place when they were discovered where they should not have been. +++

+++ Aye, brother. I want to know what they took, yet the more I look at what is plain to my eyes, I cannot help but believe that Dorn has gone mad. +++

+++ I don't know about mad, +++ Loken mused, +++ but he wanted something from here, and then he ordered the planet's destruction. +++

+++ Forgive me, cousins, I think I have the answers, if you would not mind joining me in here, +++ Ahriman apologetically cut across the Luna Wolves' conversation.

Without another word, Loken left Vipus with Osisrius to keep watch, in case there were any survivors who needed help. Not, of course, that any of them thought there would be.

They were wrong.

* * *

><p>Loken, along with Kibre, found Ahriman on the floor of the remnants of, probably, the vestry. In his lap lay the head of a young man, clothed in the tattered remains of a Venusian uniform. Kibre and Loken looked at each other in shock and amazement that someone had survived this. Abaddon nodded to them from Ahriman's side; he had been here all along, and provided the final proof that Ahriman wasn't hiding anything.<p>

They crouched down as Ahriman, his helmet by his side, put his fingers to his lips and returned his attention to the wounded soldier. Loken took a look over the human and realised that he had probably survived by sheer force of will, and the pure desire to let someone know what had happened here. He would not last much longer, and as Ahriman was as close as anyone to a Chaplain in the Thousand Sons, it would be he who would give this man peace if he wanted it.

"Okasar," Ahriman gently spoke, "These are Captain Abaddon and Captain Loken of the Luna Wolves. Their father, the Warmaster, has sent them here to find out what happened. I want you to tell them what you whispered to me."

The man, who in Abaddon's estimation was probably not older than thirty Terran years, seemed to shrink back; but then again, after what had happened here, he could hardly be blamed.

Finally, he spoke; and Loken was stunned at the gentleness and respect with which Ahriman treated the soldier. There were those who said Astartes did not have compassion, and in some instances this was correct, for they were made to war and bring death and destruction at the command of the Primarchs and the Emperor, beloved by all. But in this moment, Loken forgot the hurtful names that his cousins in the Thousand Sons were known by.

At this moment, he saw Ahriman in a different light; and it was a memory that would never leave him, imprinting itself deep into his mind. He would think little of it for a while, for there were other kind Astartes, but the memory would have cause to ignite once more two years after, and would never fade after.

"They came here and asked to see the old temple," the man rasped. "We told them that none could enter here, it was forbidden lest the - cough – lest the evil here escape and reclaim our world."

The soldier spasmed once more and Ahriman handed him some water to drink. Loken gently raised the soldiers head to enable him to sip from the water skin; this man, this warrior, needed to see that they were here in peace, that he was not about to receive the same fate as his brothers and sisters in arms.

"Who were they, son?" Abaddon asked.

"We were – were waiting for the mighty Dorn, we thought he had come to recruit once more from our world."

Loken nodded more to himself. The Fists returned to a recruiting world once in a generation, or when they needed to.

"Instead, our patrol found his Scouts here. They did not listen and entered this place; we thought they were going to research it for some test, but when they came out they had the statue of the two-bodied evil that once guided our destinies."

"Two-bodied evil?" Abaddon had removed his helm too, finding it freeing to do so in a place with atmosphere, and arched an eyebrow.

"Neither male nor female; pleasure and pain, dark and light, all rolled into one. We had been unable to break the statue, so our forefathers had encased it in a tomb; and then they destroyed the temple, lest its influence be felt once more."

The soldier's eyes started to close and Loken gave him some more water. "The Scouts took it?"

"They accused us of betraying the Emperor by holding something that belonged to him. They would not listen, we yelled, someone took out a gun, and that's when they did likewise, fired at us, we got two of them but then – then their masters in yellow came amongst us, killing us. Killing us all. I was thrown in here by an explosion and I vowed to – to tell the truth before I die. Lights from the sky killed the cities, I – I know no more. So if Dorn has sent you to kill me, then do it."

"We were not sent by Dorn, son," Ahriman whispered. "Do you wish to be at peace now? I can end your pain if you like."

"Promise me that you will not forget what you have seen, that you will avenge us."

Loken and Abaddon shared a look and both nodded as one. "You have our word," they said in unison.

Ahriman administered the Emperor's Peace and lay the body down. Abaddon holstered his bolter and drew in a long, shuddery breath. He did not speak for a moment or two; he did not need to, for the other two captains knew the import of what had been said, and no words were necessary now.

"Falkus, Vipus and Osisrius: funeral detail. I want all the bodies of the Venusian soldiers given a warrior's burial; the bodies of the Scouts are to come back with us. Maybe Lord Magnus can find some way of getting their orders out of their bodies."

Ahriman arched an eyebrow as Abaddon picked up the body of the now-dead soldier.

"I did not think you believed in a soul, Ezekyle."

"When we die, do our memories and honour live on in the next warrior who has our gene-seed?" he simply asked, and then walked away.

"Wonders will never cease." Ahriman smiled a little. "The feared First Captain is a philosopher."

"He has his moments." Loken grinned despite the situation and went to help his brothers.

Three hours later, the Photep was on her way back toward the Vengeful Spirit. Venus IX stayed, now utterly dead.

Its memory would live forever, as a light to the Thousand Sons, as an echo to the Luna Wolves, and as the location of atrocity to a galaxy aflame.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Angron roared his battle cry across the desert lands of Maragara, and to the xenos that were attacking it sounded like the worst demon of their hell. The Maragarans were not human, not by the definition that his father had set down. They were, rather, descended from birds. Their skins were covered in varying shades of feathers, and the World Eaters had worked out that, the brighter the feathers, the higher ranked they were in their society.

It mattered not, for they were not human; they were xenos, and as such they could not be allowed to live. The battle had raged for days, and despite the sickness at the very thought that xeno abominations were trying to live like humans, Kharn and his father had a sneaking admiration for the way they fought. They were tough to kill, and their aerial attacks were something to behold. Humans in aircraft, even Astartes in aircraft, could not match these natural aerial fighters. They had attacked the moment the World Eaters had made planetfall, and they were warriors of skill.

But the World Eaters were not alone. At Angron's word, the Salamanders came through the clouds and the smoke, their father at their head. When they had been told they would be accompanying the World Eaters to reclaim this system, the Emperor had called it a crusade within a crusade. He had said that this world and her neighbours would make an ideal staging area to keep watch on anything that would threaten the Imperium, after the Crusade, once it was solid and built to last.

Vulkan, however, had had his doubts about working with the War Hound and his sons; lately, it was becoming noticeable that Angron was more bloodthirsty then usual. And although Astartes were not known for their gentleness in the theatre of war, in Vulkan's mind all the bioengineering and bloodlust enhancements that the World Eaters had done to themselves, turning them into rage machines, had made them worse than any other Legion even before this latest degeneration. And as he fought in the Maragaran sector, he had heard the stories beginning to circle the Crusade: that those Legions once being called to punishment by the Emperor and Warmaster were now being given leeway, and the freedom to do what they must to ensure the Great Crusade continued apace and in a way pleasing to the master of mankind.

Still, all that could be dealt with after; as it stood, thus far Angron had been fairly amiable, for all of the last six months that they had spent warring in this sector. Vulkan was a little surprised at that fact; but, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he did as the War Hound wanted, and now the Salamanders brought up the surprise assault that nailed the victory they needed.

Kharn and his company fought with the blood and fire of any Astartes, and more. Their enhancements had ensured that they fought long after similar wounds, suffered by their cousins, would have laid them low. There were other resilient Space Marines, though - and the Salamanders were most resilient of all.

Captain J'sara, of the 8th Company of the Salamanders, fought his way through the avian attacks, his mighty hammer demolishing any and all aliens that thought they were better than mankind's finest warriors. He joined Kharn's side, and together they roared an affirmation to the Emperor; then they fought on. Their objective was to take and hold the area that had been identified as the xenos' command building.

"Well met, cousin Kharn," J'sara nodded.

"Well met, cousin," Kharn breathed; and to J'sara his voice sound like it was teetering on the edge of the abyss. Between sanity and insanity.

The lull in the fighting had given them a chance to take stock of their situation and gave Kharn, temporarily free of the influence of the Butcher's Nails, a chance to sound out his cousin as per his father's instructions. Kharn was not known to be a bloodthirsty warrior, at least by the Twelfth Legion's standards, and indeed, any who had seen him with Angron had noted that the 8th Company's commander, the equerry to the Primarch, seemed to have a way with him.

Able to calm his Primarch's moods as and when it was needed, he was a diplomat without peer in those circumstances, and Angron rarely listened to anyone save Kharn. He was still, to an extent, the same young Astartes who, after the Emperor had plucked the Primarch from D'eshara, had managed to withstand a beating that had killed several of his brothers and make the grieving, enraged Primarch see sense.

It was said that the Emperor himself owed Kharn for bringing his son back from the brink of madness; but there were others who thought that Angron had been beyond that, and that it had been his own genetic coding that had stopped him from slipping over the edge. But it was plain to see that Kharn was the favoured of Angron's sons, and always would be.

Kharn watched the Apothecaries from both companies tend to the wounded and collect the gene-seed from the dead, so that the legion would live on. J'Sara removed his helm to reveal skin as black as night. His eyes were blue, though, not the Salamanders' normal red. There were tattoos across his face, not to mention what looked like scarring on his neck.

The tattoo was a salamander, the lizard that gave the sons of Vulkan their name; and the scarring, Kharn also knew, was ritualistic, perhaps to honour the victories they had won or blame themselves for the losses they might have accrued.

Either way, it was no different, in Kharn's eyes, to the honour bouts that the World Eaters took part in on their vessels, between battles, to keep the blood honed and the battle-spirits in their armour primed for use. It was also suspected that, even though the Emperor had brought his way of life to Nocturne, some of their superstitions lived on, not only in the Salamanders themselves but in their father too.

Kharn surveyed the battlefield and was pleased with what he saw. They had done well, and taking the command building would be easier than the human commanders with them had thought.

"Tell me, cousin, if the Emperor decided to change his rules on what should and should not happen in the crusade, would the Salamanders follow his lead?"

J'Sara blinked a couple of times and looked a little puzzled by the question Kharn posed to him. "Are there those that say the sons of Nocturne are not loyal?" he asked warily.

Kharn recalled his father's words and resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow; ever since the Emperor had unveiled his new strategy, his father was embracing it in full force, but word had come through that the Emperor wanted to bring the Salamanders into the fold. He had a soft spot for Vulkan, and Angron had charged Kharn and his other captains with the task of putting the seed of doubt into the warriors' heads. The Primarch himself would deal with Vulkan.

The only problem with this plan was that it required the Salamanders to respect the World Eaters. But after six months of war, that seemed to finally be happening. The modifications to the Nails had certainly helped.

"It's simply that I have heard that the Ultramarines dared to dispute the order given to the Night Lords, in dealing with a renegade planet. Of course, I also hear that they are dissatisfied with the Salamanders' progress in the Crusade."

J'sara could not believe what he was hearing; everyone knew that the Ultramarines were the largest of the Legions, but to hear that they looked down on his Legion made his blood boil (especially given that he doubted that Kharn had the capacity to lie), so much that, as he led his men alongside Kharn, he took his frustration out on the second wave of xenos that came at them.

Shortly after the battle was over, Kharn privately contacted his father. +++ I have planted the seed, Father; I leave it in your hands now+++

* * *

><p>Vulkan sat across from Angron, the victory won and the clean-up beginning, leaving the Astartes to start scaling down and returning to their vessels. Angron held his hand out and leant across the table. His huge bulk easily covered the entire table.<p>

Vulkan clasped his brother's hand and held it for a moment or two; to have done anything else would have been an insult, and Vulkan was well aware what happened to those that insulted the Red Angel. Besides which, Vulkan could now, for the first time, actually call Angron a brother.

"You have cut the braid with me, Vulkan, and I have hit the anvil of war with you; together we have honoured each other." Angron let his hand go and watched the lord of Nocturne's dark features. "Something on your mind, brother?"

Vulkan sighed a little and glanced over his shoulder. Angron saw his bodyguard standing around the entrance and with a gruff nod dismissed them. It was obvious that what his dark skinned brother had to say was for their ears only.

"I have heard a rather disconcerting rumour, Angron; perhaps you can clarify it for me," Vulkan steadily asked.

Angron raised his tankard and nodded. "Go ahead, Great Salamander." He used the nickname given to his brother by others, but he was also called the Blacksmith, and when one knew of his skill with an anvil it was a high honour indeed.

He even made the father of the Iron Hands pale in comparison, sometimes. Vulkan was a quiet man of few words, believing the actions of his sons and his expedition spoke for themselves. Angron respected Vulkan greatly, for his honesty and his honour in battle, but what he did now was as per his father's instructions. That was the only reason Angron was going along with this deception - and a deception it was, though every word he would speak would be true.

"It has come to my attention that there are those amongst out more – smug brothers who believe that my sons and I are not pulling our weight." _False_. Angron's immediate reaction was prevented by a blast from the changed Nails.

Angron swallowed his ale and set it on the table. He heaved a heavy, long sigh and shook his head. "I could not believe it when I heard it myself, brother; after the battle we have fought here, and the blood shed by both my World Eaters and your Salamanders, I will not allow any to say differently." _True_. He could not believe it when he had heard it, because he had known it was a lie.

"But?"

"But such things are being spoken by those that are listened to." Mainly Terran administrators, perhaps even Malcador, but certainly not anyone on the frontlines of the Crusade.

"Was Gulliman one of them?" Vulkan demanded. _No_.

Angron shrugged a little, and it was like watching a Torossal Mastiff loosening its muscles before it pounced. "So I hear, brother, but father does not believe a word of it; and to prove it, he is coming here to speak with you and your brave sons." _Indeed_.

That took Vulkan by surprise, and his choler cooled a little; the Emperor had not been seen since he departed the Great Crusade after Ullanor. He had heard that he had come out of his self-imposed seclusion, but he did not for one moment believe that he would be coming here. "To see me and my sons?" Vulkan's voice was lower now, almost as if he was in awe.

"He should be here in a week; it will give us time to prepare." Angron poured another tankard for himself and his brother. "He has a new plan, brother, one that will ensure our victory and enable man to rule the stars."

"I have not heard of this; and surely Horus should be here."

Angron waved his hand, a little dismissively. "In time, I believe, Father will make his plans known; but for now, he is sounding us out one by one, and so far all of us that have been spoken to have agreed with his vision."

Vulkan rubbed his jaw. "Whom else has he spoken with about this?"

"Myself, Fulgrim, Curze," he saw the light of uncertainty in his brothers eyes as he mentioned the lord of fear, "Lorgar, Ferrus, Jonson and Dorn."

At the mention of the latter three names Vulkan seemed to relax. "Whatever our father wishes of me, I will do. I swore my fealty to him when he saved my life on Nocturne; there is nothing I would not do for him, Angron, and this he knows."

Angron covered his bestial smile with his tankard. "Let us make plans, brother; for our father must have a welcome of welcomes."

Vulkan nodded, and yet at the back of his mind he made plans to confront Gulliman over the allegations made. He had a decent relationship with Roboute, and though they were certainly not close friends, he saw no reason why the Ultimate Warrior would say such a thing, unless he believed it to be true.

He would deal with it later; for now he had to ensure his Legion would not disappoint the master of mankind. In any case, Angron was known to be eternally furious at their father for the events at D'eshara, and if this great new journey of his had somehow swayed even his furthest son, then it could only mean good for mankind.

* * *

><p>To watch the might of the Mechanicum as they made ready for the Emperor's arrival was indeed an awe-inspiring sight. Vulkan stood beside Angron, and both Primarchs could see the impression that had been made on the human soldiers, as well as their own sons, at the work that the Mechanicum had taken upon itself.<p>

They had taken the mountains to their north and flattened them in days. Millions upon millions of years of tectonics, changed in forty-eight hours. The machines they used were like nothing mankind could have constructed a few centuries ago; and now, observing the talents of the scions of Mars was like watching ancient gods carve up their lands.

The two Primarchs had watched as the mountains, once so tall and proud, majestic against the pale ice blue of the sky, fell to the planet floor, to be rolled over like they were nothing but ice in a glass and ultimately shattered into nothingness. By the fourth day, the once-proud mountains were a hectakilometer-long arena that would not only accommodate the Legions of the World Eaters and the Salamanders, but also the humans and Titans that had fought alongside them.

Every Captain in every company of the Salamanders and the World Eaters ensured that their companies were up to the high expectations of their fathers; it was essential on any occasion to remind the Imperial Army who were the true favoured warriors of the master of mankind, but this was Ullanor all over again. Back then, it had been the Emperor with his Legions, announcing that he was handing command of the crusade to Horus and thereafter retiring. Now it was just between them and the great father of the stars.

Kharn had gone out of his way to befriend J'sara, and what had started as a means to complete his father's mission turned into a genuine friendship. Kharn liked the Salamanders; they had cut the braid with the World Eaters and become true brothers in arms. Kharn had even heard that his father was thinking of returning to D'eshara to conclude some unfinished business and he had asked Vulkan to join him in something that was personal to him and him alone. They had much in common with the Salamanders, in truth; a closeness to mortal humans, non-hateful brutality in battle (flamers were not kind weapons), and a true sense of brotherhood. And Vulkan had been a good influence on his Primarch.

But everything would depend on the word of their grandfather. He turned as J'sara joined his side, and watched as the Titans and Warhounds brought up the rear. The Emperor would arrive in the morning, and it would take all night just to prepare the parade ground. This was a logistical nightmare, and for the briefest of moments they understood what it was that the warsmiths and captains of the Iron Warriors, not to mention the mighty Perturabo, had to deal with on a regular basis.

Next came the Imperial Army's armoured divisions, followed several hours later by the Imperial Army guard units. Kharn turned as the lights of dawn began to peek over the horizon.

"I will see you there, cousin." He clasped J'sara's hand. "Were you at Ullanor, J'sara?"

J'Sara shook his head. "I was the other side of the galaxy at the time, Kharn; I missed the honour of that day."

"Then this is a day you will never forget, for as long as you live." Kharn swept his arm before him. "This is what the Mechanicum can do in a week, and other worlds know well the majesty that is the work of the lords of Mars and their people. But there is a day dawning, cousin, that you and your brothers will never forget; for the Emperor walks amongst us again, and to see him in all his glory is to know he is the true master of mankind."

J'Sara nodded solemnly and, with his helm tucked under his arm, he walked out with Kharn and then parted with the World Eater, to meet his company. His stride was a little surer, like all his brother Salamanders, and his gait was taller, for the Emperor was coming here and, whatever the master of mankind wanted to do, it would be done. Not one of the sons of Vulkan would be found wanting.

The remembrancers took their places, each and every member of the order from both the Salamander and the World Eater expeditionary forces. Both Primarchs had decided that this was a day too monumental to be forgotten.

The Emperor watched from his tent as the final preparations for his appearance was being put in place. He turned to see Angron and Vulkan kneeling before him and, smiling, placed both his hands on their pauldrons and bid them to rise.

Angron's repainted armour, more than any other of his brothers, looked like the old armour of the Romani, with gold plate over red. His red hair was swept back and tied into braids that flowed down to his neck. His right pauldron was carved into the head of an eagle, but the beak of the eagle came up in a sharp point, and woe betide those that found themselves shoved aside. His pale face, lit up by the glow from his collar, made him look even more fintimidating then he would have otherwise. His face was like a predator's, with his cheeks sharply pointed, almost dagger-like; his eyes were ringed in red, and shone white with no iris. His twin axes, Gorefather and Gorechild, sat in both hands, at rest, although the Emperor could see his son was itching to use them once more.

He turned to Vulkan, who kept his eyes lowered. His armour of the brightest green and his backpack had two salamander heads either side. His right arm was sheathed in a silver salamander head, which shone with the highest brilliance. His Warhammer seemed to glow with an unearthly fire, a demonstration of why he was the Blacksmith; one hammer was sheathed, the other in his palm. It was a sight to stir the heart when Vulkan strode the field of battle, twirling his twin hammers in unison and destroying the enemies of the Imperium with each mighty blow. His black skin seemed to shine with a sheen of its own; he had no hair, preferring to be bald and have the heat of a thousand suns of a thousand worlds he had strode on his skin. Like all sons of the fire, he was most at home with it all. His eyes glowed red, like all of his gene-line, and his father wondered what else his son saw with those eyes of his.

The Emperor moved to Vulkan and embraced him warmly, stepping back and looked proudly at his ebony skinned son. "Firstly, worry not; I know you are a warrior of renown, Vulkan. I could never forget the battle atop Deathfire."

"You saved my life, father," Vulkan replied.

"As you would have saved mine. And in recognition of your battles, often forgotten by those who deem their own legions worthier of the accolades of war -" he turned and nodded to the mighty Valdor, who was stood a respectful distance behind his master. Valdor opened a large weapons case. "Ferrus made this on my instructions, Vulkan."

The Emperor removed a fire-wreathed hammer from its case. It was taller and bigger than the mighty Terminators, and clearly crafted for the hands of a Primarch alone. The Emperor handed it to his son, who stared in shock for a moment before slowly taking the hammer.

Like all of Ferrus Manus's work, it was crafted with the spirit and honour of the Iron Hands Primarch. Like Vulkan, whatever Ferrus created, he put a little of himself into; and it showed in the perfect lines and the keenness of the head. But more than that, the images and details that were carved into the head and staff were like nothing Vulkan had ever seen. As he turned it over in his massive hands, he swallowed slowly as he saw his own image engraved into the shaft. The Head was shaped like a mighty dragon, its mouth open, as if it were ready to breathe eternal fire on his enemies.

"He named it Sa'gera; it means fire-head in the tongue of the Medusans." The Emperor smiled. "I infused it with a little reminder to your enemies, as to who you are and whose blood runs in your veins."

"Thank you, father," Vulkan bowed his head, "and I must thank Ferrus when I next encounter him"

The Emperor sat down and bid his sons sit with him; his gaze fell on Vulkan "Things are changing, Vulkan, and I need to know that you will be with me when I illuminate the universe."

Vulkan's brow furrowed in confusion; was this not what they were doing anyway? The Great Crusade was a mission to bring the universe into the power of its rightful rulers. To him, the Emperor's new words sounded suspiciously like what Magnus or Lorgar would say. He looked at Angron, who kept his gaze fixed anywhere but on either of them; but then, that was Angron. Like a wild beast, you could not maintain eye contact with him for long periods, perhaps because like them he took it as a challenge.

He returned his gaze to his father. "Does anyone else know of this new plan of yours?"

The Emperor sat forward and clasped his hands into a steeple. "I have reason to believe that there are those who would not agree to this new direction of my crusade. If I told you that I am a god, that I can bend and shape the galaxy in a way that the Eldar will either serve or die, that all other Xenos will bow before us all as the rightful rulers, what would you say?"

"Father... you always said that religion was the root of half of all evil." Vulkan was knocked into shock by his father's words.

Had Lorgar's mad rantings finally got to him? After all, there was a saying on Nocturne that false gods could be wrathful, and if their father, who had destroyed all the churches on Terra, unified Terra under that fundamental belief that religion was the scourge of all civilisation, was now saying that all of that had been a lie...

The Emperor got up and, seeing how confused his son, was he moved around behind him, and leant forward. "Come with me, Vulkan; I have something I want to show you."

* * *

><p>The Remembrancers looked around them, daring to believe that they were here to witness something that had been denied to them at Ullanor. The chatter amongst them was of heightened excitement. They could all see that of the thousands of Remembrancers across the fleets, they were being given the honour of honours. One or two boasted about how they would write prose to commemorate this day; artists bickered over how best to portray the Emperor when he appeared beside his two noble sons. Others spoke of how they would carve the likeness of the two Primarchs and their father, but one was more concerned about why it was taking so long.<p>

Veluva Garston had been assigned here to capture the day in image, and her camera was ready for the Primarchs' and Emperor's arrival; but she was uneasy. She came from the lands of the Afrycas and her skin shone a dark black, her eyes a pale brown. Her black ringlet hair was tied back into a bun.

She had always followed her gut, and something right now was telling her that there was something wrong here. The Warmaster and his brothers that attended Ullanor had forbade the Remembrancers any access to this most private of moments, even the Imperial Army was denied such an honour, so - the question remained - why now?

If she had known what was going on between the Emperor and his son, then she might have wished it had not been now, or ever.

* * *

><p>Vulkan screwed his eyes shut as the images whirled in his mind, vying for attention and calling him to choose which one of them would be his patron. Blood flowed from his nose and his eyes, and he felt two muscled arms wrap around his chest. He gripped the hammer that his father had given him, wanting to draw strength from the gift created with the hands of the Gorgon, but the more he gripped it, the more the images began to coalesce in front of him.<p>

A feathered serpent of many colours, promising him the gift of days future and past, what had come and what would come and what might come, all for his benefit and his power, if only he would follow him and him alone; then a being encased in mighty blood-red armour, promising the glories and strengths of battle that could only be found in following his tenets.

A great bloated beast spilling death, disease and decay promised his warriors and he protection from doom; but they had to embrace him first, and become one with the grandfather of all. Finally, there came a beautiful figure that was part man, part woman, and almost Eldar in appearance. Vulkan rebelled at the image, disgusted that something Eldar-like would dare come to him asking for his fealty.

Vulkan groaned as the denizens of the warp vied for his attention, and he fell to his knees, his father's voice close to his ear, holding him as he would an injured or sick child.

"This is what I must do to ensure victory, my son. It gladdens me no more than you now, but there is no other path than this difficult one that leads to mankind's salvation. And you knew all along, in the end, that the Imperial Truth was not complete. I want the Salamanders to bring their fire and their fury to all enemies that would destroy my worlds and my empire. Join me once more, Vulkan, my beloved son of fire."

Vulkan roared as a second voice came to his mind; it seemed to emanate from the Warhammer that he clutched tightly, urging him to follow his father's plans, to be the favoured son who would bring his father's wrath to those, mortal and brother, who refused to follow the new Imperial Truth. In truth, he needed the urging. He had believed, to a certain mild extent, in the supernatural; was not the Warp living proof of that? But this seemed like a path to damnation. But would he not walk to damnation, if that was what it took to save humanity and the Imperium? And was he not eternally loyal?

He was, he knew, in the end; but still he argued with himself , until he could do so no more. At last, he slumped forward and blacked out.

He didn't know how long he was out for, but when he came round, he was laid on a dais with his father and brother sitting close by. Angron gripped his hand in the warrior's grip, with no pretence and no deception. Vulkan had shown him respect, and his sons had warred with his sons, as family should, rather than spend all effort condemning the violence of the World Eaters.

"Vulkan, my brother, we have cut the braid together… do we still war as one?" Angron asked; his usual voice, always teetering on the edge of madness or violence, was infused with gentleness.

Vulkan sat up, with help from them both, and got to his feet. He looked around him as if he was in a place that he did not know. When the fog cleared, he turned to his father and moved to one knee.

"Your will be done, father," he muttered.

The Emperor smiled and bid his son to stand. "Then order your sons to follow the lead of the World Eaters; and those who do not…." His voice trailed off, the implication clear. Vulkan knew, in that instant, just what he would become under the Emperor's aegis. And he knew just as well that he would rather become that than become a traitor to his father and the human race.

Vulkan did as his father commanded.


	15. Epilogue

J'Sara could not believe the order that came across from Vulkan and asked for clarification. It came as a repetition of his father's words. The Remembrancers were to die, for the Great Crusade was entering a time when secrecy was paramount; and any Imperial Army officer or Astarte that did not follow those orders would be defying not just Vulkan, but the Emperor himself.

The Emperor appeared, with Vulkan and Angron to either side of him. He raised his hands as the humans and Astartes alike cheered him and screamed adulation at him. The humans - all of them, both the Remembrancers and the Imperial Army - fell to their knees, weeping and unable to look at this magnificent figure for too long. It did not matter to them if they were unmanned, they were laying eyes on the master of mankind; and if their eyes burnt out of their sockets, then they would welcome it, for they could say they witnessed the Emperor in all his glory. (One last show of light, before the Crusade turned to darkness.)

J'Sara moved to the front with his company, and stopped as he saw Garston weeping. He had spoken with her several times and crouched down as if to help her stand.

"Can you pretend to faint?" he asked.

She jumped, startled by his voice. "What?"

"If you want to live, faint so that I can take you away," he insisted.

"But this…"

"You will die if you stay here; now faint, woman!"

His words chilled her and she did as he asked, though unintentionally. He picked her up and moved to the back of his brothers, voxing his master and telling him that this Remembrancer had stone cold dropped dead. Some others, it seemed, had actually done so.

So far, so good; and as he carried the limp body to the back of the crowd, towards his Stormbird, many of his men with him, he thought for one moment he had gotten away with this.

+++ Brother, where are you going? +++

He turned to see Kharn standing by his Stormbird with his men beside him, and a sinking feeling entered his stomach.

+++ This is wrong Kharn, we are not meant to murder people in the name of - in the name of what? +++

+++ Cousin, there is a new dawn approaching, one that will enlighten mankind and make us the rulers of all worlds as history tells us is fated to be. +++

J'Sara shook his head. +++ This is wrong, cousin. +++

Kharn stepped forward. +++ Do not make me kill you, J'sara. +++

J'sara laid the woman on the ground and drew his bolter; his company followed suit. On a private vox channel he told his second, brother-sergeant M'ela, to take the human woman and get the hell out of here; to head for freedom, or perhaps wherever the Warmaster was, if it turned out Horus did not support this insanity.

A group of World Eaters stopped beside J'sara and drew their weapons on their brothers.

"This, Kharn, is wrong. I will not kill innocents; these people are not enemies."

"Begalin," Kharn sneered, "Our father knew that you would be the one to fall."

"My oath is to the Great Crusade, Kharn, not this madness."

The sounds of screams and bolter fire rang out as the Emperor gave his command. J'sara turned to see his brothers not only turn on those who would not follow the Emperor's new lead, but their own brothers.

Astartes against Astartes.

The unthinkable had happened.

He fired at Kharn and all hell broke loose. He jumped at the equerry, a man he had - not a few days previous - warred alongside and called friend. He doubted he could kill Kharn; the man was a legend, even to warriors of other legions. Still, he had to give his sergeant time to get away. He got his wish: his sergeant and his company Fire Weaved, and, alongside some World Eaters, took the only human to survive the massacre and made their way towards the Stormbird.

J'sara felt the tears course down his face as, over his vox, he heard those Salamanders that would not stand for such carnage die at the hands of their own brothers. Even that shock faded compared to that he felt as Vulkan himself waged into the massacre, screaming devotion to the Emperor, and as, simultaneously with that distraction, Kharn's axe came down; he felt his chest crack open and his helm roll away.

Kharn's eyes were like a beast's, the thrill of the kill lighting his eyes with an unnatural fire. He felt the axe come down again and smiled as he saw his Storm bird move out. He hoped that it would reach his battle barge and get out of here before the other vessels turned on it.

Blood spurted from his mouth as Kharn finally dealt the death blow, and laughter echoed from his mouth.

He would not be here to see the decisions made later this day, but he would die as all Salamanders once were - with honour, without innocent blood on his hands.

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED in the second book of the Renegades Saga, <em>The Flames of Belief<em>.


End file.
